


Prowl/Jazz in the Month of July

by Prowlsuniboob



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - AI, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Arranged Marriage, Dragon AU, Friends With Benefits, Gender-bent AU, M/M, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prompt Fic, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, barbarian au, but it’s more like salty colleagues with benefits, ex-lovers, kind of, spy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-06-02 02:48:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 38,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19432360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prowlsuniboob/pseuds/Prowlsuniboob
Summary: Where I pull out a random prompt and write a oneshot about Prowl and Jazz utilising said prompt, every day for the whole month of July.





	1. What kind of animal are you?

::Stay low, mechs. Shockwave may not be here, but he left a lot of security.::

::Copy that, boss.::

::Copy.::

::Got it.::

Jazz slipped along the darkened corridors. Some part of him expected to see energon stains, scorch marks, some sign of the terrible things that happened in Shockwave’s laboratories. Apart from the darkened lights, however, the halls were clean and sterile, reminiscent of a hospital. Jazz hated hospitals.

He froze, deep in the shadows, as a patrol strode by, their armor clinking, their large guns clanking against their legs. Shockwave tended to be protective of his labs, but even this seemed to be a bit much. It didn't matter in the long run, though. They'd all be dead when Jazz and his team were finished with the place. Stealth going in, havoc coming out, that was the motto for this sort of mission.

First on the agenda, a console, one of the main ones. All the ones Jazz knew of were marked on his HUD map, and the nearest wasn't far away. He made his way towards it, slow and steady.

A scream split the air. If Jazz weren't already tense, he would have jumped. As it was, he paused for barely a second before continuing.

::Sound off, was that one of us?::

::Goldbug, wasn't me.::

::Illusion, checking in.::

::Thirty-eight, I'm good. Want someone to check it out, boss?::

Jazz checked his HUD. ::Source is along my route, I'll investigate. As you were.::

He carried on. He ducked another patrol, turned a few corners, and found himself before a code-locked door standing between himself and the main console he'd made his goal.

The silence broke under an agonized scream. It came from behind the door.

Jazz made quick work of the lock. He slipped into the room, wary of both the source of the scream and whatever was causing it. The room was as sterile as the rest of the facility. No visible hostiles. Jazz stuck to the wall, his sensors alert, his gaze flickering here and there.

The console sat against the western wall. Towards the back corner, however, was a berth-slab, half hidden by a white rubber curtain. Monitoring equipment surrounded the set-up– that, and a tall-standing device feeding flashing bands of energy down a thick bundle of wires that vanished behind the curtain.

Before he could get too distracted, Jazz plugged a datastick into the main console and started the download. The percentage count began to rise slowly.

A third scream bored into Jazz's sensitive audials, followed by a wheezing whine. Jazz turned his full attention to the hidden berth. ::Source located. Check in when you've completed your objectives.::

Ignoring the affirmative responses, Jazz stalked towards the berth. Reaching out, he pulled aside the curtain and looked down at the berth's occupant.

It looked Cybertronian. A mechanoid, with two arms, two legs, a torso and a head. The style of its plating was completely unfamiliar to Jazz, however; a dusty black and white mixture of sharp spikes and sweeping curves. A pair of wings lay sandwiched between its back and the berth, a hint as to its altmode. Sharp claws tipped its white servos, and three toes finished off its pedes.

At the rattle of the curtain, the creature moved. Its head rolled to face Jazz, revealing a very mech-like face crowned by a bright red chevron. A thin nose, narrow chin, and wide lips made up its features. Dim blue optics flashed, locking on Jazz's own behind his visor. Jazz knew then that whatever this creature's species, it was most certainly sentient.

The wires from the standing device were, as Jazz now saw, connected to nodes on the creature's chest, wings, and helm. Buckled straps held the creature tight to the berth. As Jazz watched, the wires pulsed, and the creature tensed. It didn't scream, though, not this time, only grunted through clenched teeth.

Electro-shock pulses, Jazz surmised. Maybe to test its endurance, or maybe just because Shockwave was a sadistic bastard.

Jazz looked down at the creature, weighing the possibilities: it would be unethical to leave this creature in Shockwave's ever-loving care, but what Optimus didn't know wouldn't hurt him. And dragging this thing out would definitely slow Jazz down, even if it did have the strength to walk.

If he did take it, well, the Autobots would have a new ally, presuming this creature had a sense of honor.

Jazz gritted his teeth, annoyance flashing through him. ::Picked up a passenger, mechs. Might be a little bit behind.::

::What is it, a mech?::

::Not sure.::

Jazz leaned over the mechanoid's helm. "You there, sweet?" He kept his voice low and tailored to calm. The creature blinked up at him with flickering, pained optics. Jazz glanced at the electro-shock device. "Better turn that off, huh?" He rounded the berth, reaching for the controls. The creature tensed, and hissed.

"Don't worry, sweet, I'm makin' it better, not worse." Jazz gripped a dial and turned it down. The pulses ceased at once. The creature relaxed minutely. Jazz turned back to the berth and set to work on the straps. Rather than search for a way to unlock the straps, he sliced them open with a vibroblade. The strange mechanoid watched Jazz all the while, its gaze sharpening with every moment it wasn't bombarded with pain.

His work done, Jazz stepped back and made his way over to the main console, never fully turning his back on the berth. The download was at 78%. Not long now.

Over on the berth, the mechanoid pushed itself into a sitting position with trembling arms. It stumbled off the berth, took a few steps, and then transformed.

Well, that certainly wasn't a car.

Jazz had seen plenty of beast-formers, but this mech didn't look like any beast Jazz knew of. Those wings had folded out, expanding until they could no doubt lift the creature into the air. Four legs trembled to bear the creature's weight, and a slim neck held an undoubtedly beast-like helm. That red chevron had turned to horns.

From the depths of Jazz's memory came the thought of Predacons. But Predacons were long extinct, and probably a lot bigger than this mech, who, even transformed, wasn't that much bigger than Jazz himself.

The creature's legs shuddered, but didn't buckle. It stared at Jazz, determined. Jazz stared back.

"I think I get why Shockers had you, sweet thing." Jazz pulled a ration from his subspace and cracked it open. He took a few steps forward, set the cube on the ground, and retreated. The winged creature looked down at the cube with open suspicion, turning that gaze on Jazz after a few moments of scrutiny.

"Go on, sweet," Jazz urged, still in his most soothing voice. "We got a slog ahead of us, you're gonna need your energy."

The creature took a few steps forward, grabbed the cube, and pulled back. It sniffed at the contents, chirred, and began to drink. Jazz watched it silently. When it had finished, Jazz checked the download. Complete. He pulled the datastick out and tucked it into subspace.

"Come on, sweet. We got a transport to catch."


	2. Is there anything you regret?

"Prowl."

"Jazz."

They looked at one another, silent. Prowl wondered what Jazz was thinking of, if he was thinking the same things as Prowl was.

Jazz looked Prowl over, up and down. "Long time no see." Jazz stood on the other side of the conference table, which had minutes ago hosted a conference between humans, the former Decepticons, and the former Autobots. The conference had gone well, in Prowl's opinion. They were closer to peace.

"So it has." Prowl broke their staring contest at last, turning his gaze down to the table. He began to gather up his datapads, the scraps he'd been allowed to present. Prowl was not wanted in these conferences, but it was good to present a united front to the humans, composed of the authority figures they'd come to recognize during the war's time on Earth. That was why Prowl was here, aping at being Optimus's second in command again. It was why Jazz was here, returned from his self-imposed exile.

'How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!' The quote flashed in Prowl's mind, a forgotten scrap of religious doctrine he'd once been acquainted to.

"Hm? What's that?"

Too late, Prowl realized he'd murmured that quote aloud. "How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished," he said, affecting no particular tone despite the poeticism of the quote.

Jazz smirked. "How apt."

"Indeed."

They had no use anymore, without the war. They both knew it. The fallen mighty, cast from their positions. The perished weapons, with no war to fight and to cause to forward. Was peace enough? Could two dead weapons work to forward a peace effort instead of the war effort that had carried them so far?

They looked at one another for a time, over the conference table at which a new peace was engineered, at which they were but relics meant to be displayed.

The moment stretched on, full of unspoken words. Prowl wondered what Jazz was thinking. He'd never been able to tell. That was why Jazz had fascinated him, why Jazz had frightened him.

Finally, Jazz broke the silence. His voice, always and ever beautiful, fell across Prowl's doorwings. "Do you wanna come back to my suite, have a drink?"

"...Yes."

They left their places at the table, their museum boxes, their glass display cases. Jazz led the way, out into the burgeoning city. Led Prowl to a residence, led him up the stairs to a door. Jazz worked the lock for a time, and then, when the door opened, he turned and worked at a panel beside the door. Deactivating the traps, Prowl had no doubt.

Then Jazz was done, and he stepped aside to let Prowl inside and closed the door.

"C'mon," Jazz said. The foyer hardly existed, opening up to a living room and an aside kitchenette. "Sit down, I'll get the drinks."

Prowl sat stiffly on a threadbare couch. He folded his hands in his lap, resisted the urge to tangle his digits together and pull until it hurt.

Jazz returned after a short time. He sat on the couch beside Prowl, handed him a cube of engex. Prowl didn't hesitate to take a sip. It was good engex.

"This is good," Prowl said.

Jazz tilted his head. His visor flashed. "It's amazing that you still trust me," he said.

"I have no reason not to."

"Even after the way we… parted ways?"

Prowl wanted to hide behind the cube in his hands. He didn't. "Even with all the animosity between us, I still trust you. You're reliable, in a way."

"In a way."

"Yes." Prowl took a sip of his engex. Jazz hadn't drunk any of his own yet. "Don't feel the need to tell me your perceptions of me. I know who I am."

Jazz smiled. It was a smile that had once been familiar, but was no longer. He took a sip from his cube. "The weapons of war perished," he murmured. "Is that what we are, Prowler? Ceremonial weapons, broken to signify the start of peace."

Prowl shivered at that name, that word only Jazz had ever called him with anything resembling affection. Was that affection Prowl heard now? Or was it only regret.

"It's what we've always been."

Jazz shook his head. "Not always."

Prowl remembered, then (though he had never forgotten). Kisses stolen, embraces snatched in the breaks between the darkness. Taking comfort in one another. Until there was no more comfort to be taken, and no more time to give it.

Anger rose up in Prowl's chest, a flashfire. It seized his spark, shook it, writhed, spilled from his mouth. "Are we going to keep speaking in riddles and half-words, or will we finally speak plainly?"

"What is there to say?" Jazz smiled sadly. "We thought we could withstand the test of time and war, Prowler. We were wrong."

"The war is gone." The flashfire in Prowl's chest died out, as quickly as it had begun. An emptiness replaced it, cold and damp, like tears. "Now we have nothing to hold us up. The world's leaving us behind."

They were both thinking it. But Prowl knew that he had to be the one to say it. He was the one who'd broken them, who'd been too afraid to keep trying, keep clinging.

"We could try again," Prowl whispered. "We could try being something more than weapons." Speak plainly, speak plainly, he thought. "We could try to love one another. I want to learn how to love you."

Jazz set his cube aside on the low table before the couch. Prowl followed suit, freeing his hands. He resisted the urge to wring them.

"...I want that too, Prowler." Jazz met Prowl's gaze, serious and solemn. "I promised you, once, that when the war was over, we'd be able to love one another as much as we wanted."

"I remember." Whispers over a pillow, cold comforts, empty promises.

Jazz smiled, that once-familiar smile. "The war is over. I think it's time I make good on my promise."

"We've changed a lot since you made that promise. We didn't even think you'd be able to keep it."

"I'm willing to try if you are."

"...I am."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so thankful for the people who read the previous chapter! This one ended rather weakly, in my opinion, but for the most part it flowed well. Comment what you think, or leave a kudo! If you've already left kudos... well, I guess you'll have to comment then :))


	3. If you had the chance to save one person's life...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of Chapter 1: What kind of animal are you?

Prowl was free at last. His legs trembled with weakness, and if he flared his wings he would surely topple, but he was free. And all thanks to the.... Cybertronian.

Prowl was not familiar with the surface dwellers. Few Cyberdrakes were, in fact, but that was no surprise; it was all but forbidden to leave the Underground, those warrens and tunnels which laced beneath Cybertron's surface. They were not forbidden to leave, yes, but certainly discouraged from it. Cybertronians are dangerous, the elders insisted. They are cruel. If they find us, they will destroy us.

What Prowl had seen up here, what he had experienced… the elders were right. They were fools at the best of times, but right about this one thing.

But there is always an exception to the norm, Prowl thought, studying the silver Cybertronian. The surfacer studied him back.

The surfacer's servo reached to his hip. Prowl tensed, but the surfacer pulled out, not a weapon, but a cube. He cracked the top open with his claw and peeled the metal back, revealing glowing energon. Slowly, the surfacer took a few steps forward, placed the cube down on the ground, and pulled back. He said something Prowl couldn't understand, but his voice, oh his voice, it was lovely. But lovely voices do not make for lovely people, Prowl knew.

Still, the sight of energon reminded Prowl of his achingly empty tanks. The surfacer spoke, but Prowl couldn't understand him.

Despite himself, Prowl crept forward and snatched up the cube. A sniff revealed no unusual elements, nothing but wonderful, wonderful energon. Still, Prowl looked at the surfacer, wondered if he had tampered with it somehow. It was a risk Prowl was willing to take, so hungry was he. Prowl drank all the energon.

The surfacer had turned away, grabbed something from the computer. He said something, then, and thought Prowl couldn't make out the meaning, the gestures of the surfacer's hands gave Prowl no doubt that it was time to go. But go where?

When he was out, he would run, Prowl decided. Take this mech's aid until Prowl no longer had need of it. He would not become captive to the surfacers again.

The surfacer led Prowl through darkened halls. The smell of antiseptic stung Prowl's nose. He hated it.

The surfacer was quiet, very quiet. All the surface dwellers Prowl had seen in the past few months were loud– their steps, their voices, their frames. A never-ending clamor. But this surfacer, he was silent. His steps nearly inaudible, his systems but a whisper. Reluctantly, Prowl admired him; no doubt, he had been well trained to act with such silence.

The silence of their passage was split, suddenly, by the claxon wails of an alarm. The surfacer did not twitch, but his pace increased, no longer quite as silent. He said something, with that word that Prowl was coming to recognize: 'Sweet'. What did it mean, Prowl wondered. Perhaps it was the name the surfacer had given Prowl? Or his own name?

Such thoughts flew from Prowl's mind when they ran into a patrol of surface-dwellers. Prowl did not recognize any of them, but that didn't matter– they were hostile, and they had tortured him.

He tore into them, tasted energon, felt metal screech under his claws. Distantly, he was aware of the silver surface-dweller fighting as well. The hostile patrol was dead before long. The surfacer gave no words, only gestured to continue.

They encountered two more patrols on their way out. Prowl relished in the fight, but he could feel his energy flagging. Would he even have the strength to fly away when they reached open air?

Then they were out. The sky above was dark, full of stars, white and yellow and red dots. The dome of the sky stretched over his head, too big, too high. Prowl thought he might unlatch from the surface of Cybertron and float out into that nothingness. It was terrifying.

Something seared against his back, just between the wings. Prowl shrieked. Pain flared over his frame, almost as bad as that which he'd been suffering for the past countless hours. His legs, already weakened, could support him no longer. He collapsed there on the dusty ground, so close to freedom. Despair washed over him.

The world was full of sound. Shouts in the Cybertronian language, pops and crackles from those horrible Cybertronian weapons. It was one of those weapons that had struck Prowl. He could feel it in the burn, could feel the blistering of his paint and the blackening of his wires.

The silver surface-dweller appeared in Prowl's fading vision. _"Transform!"_ he shouted in that unknown language. _"Transform!"_

Prowl shook his head. "I don't understand," he rasped.

The surfacer's visor flashed. _"Transform!"_ Then he made a sound, an imitation, inaccurate but understandable, the sound of shape-changing.

Prowl didn't understand why. He was in too much pain to understand, was too weary. Despite the agony, he changed. His plating shifted, and it hurt. He wanted to stop, but he couldn't, not now.

An arm wrapped under Prowl's, hauled him to his feet. Then he was being dragged, pulled, and Prowl could barely keep his balance. Dusty ground turned to clanking metal under his feet. The sounds of battle faded, but only just. The surfacer's hands urged Prowl to sit, eased him onto a strangely shaped chair. Prowl wondered, but he hurt too much to wonder.

The last thing he heard before blissful darkness claimed him was the surfacer's voice. _"You're gonna be okay, sweet."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's really short, but I thought I'd better end it there. Thanks for all the comments, though I'm sorry I haven't been replying much. There's a lot going on IRL ://  
> But there you have it! A continuation! I hope I get more inspiration to continue this, because I'm getting quite interested.  
> As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated :)) thanks for reading


	4. Write about swimming.

Prowl flitted through the water towards the coral outcrop he'd settled his brothers at. The bounty of his hunt weighed at his belt– two good-sized fish, not quite familiar, but certainly edible.

How much longer until the pod gathering began? A few days, at least, long enough for Prowl and his brothers to get to the Kelp Shallows. It was a miracle Prowl had even heard about the gathering, given his typical isolation. His misgivings concerning the gathering still remained, but if he wanted to know what was going on, he had to attend. Perhaps he could find a pod that would let Prowl and his brothers live on their territory. That would be the best case scenario of this whole thing.

The coral outcrop was in sight– Prowl saw no activity, but that was a good thing; his brothers knew how to hide themselves.

Then, a flicker through the tall seagrass. Prowl froze, then darted down into the cover of the grass.

What was it? Another mer? A shark? Were his brothers alright?

Prowl resisted the urge to swim for the coral outcrop; he couldn't risk leading the unknown predator to his brothers.

And then, "Prowl? Prowl, I saw you just now!" Smokescreen's youthful voice rippled through the waters

A predator's roar. A scream of terror from his brothers.

"No!" Prowl flew up out of the grass. Before him, swimming for the coral outcrop, was a tiger shark. Terror lanced through Prowl's heart. Before he knew it, he had a knife in his hand and cried out a wordless shriek of challenge. The tiger shark wheeled around, its mouth open, countless rows of teeth bared.

What to do? Prowl could run, draw it away. He could fight it, here and now. Two choices, and only moments to decide.

In the end, Prowl didn't make the choice himself. Through the waters came a shriek, and then a body. A streak of white and blue came at the tiger shark from the side, knocking it from its trajectory.

There was no time to hesitate. Prowl leapt into the fray, brandishing his knife alongside his unknown ally. The water darkened with blood, but whose, Prowl couldn't tell. He felt the nick of teeth on his tail, felt flesh catch under his blade. Tiger sharks are dangerous, but against two mers, it quickly realized that the bounty of youngling was not worth the effort.

The shark turned and fled, leaving a trail of red in its wake that soon dissipated.

Prowl panted, taking water through his gills and expelling it. With each breath, the rush of adrenaline and battle faded. Pain replaced it, throbbing but not unbearable.

Prowl turned to his ally, pushing the pain from his expression. "Thank you for your help."

The mer was white and blue, as Prowl had seen. Not a finmer, though, like Prowl and his brothers and most pods Prowl had met. This was a tentamer– his tentacles flares and contracted, rippling in the water. As Prowl watched, the white and blue of the tentamer's flesh changed, flickering to silver, to red, to a darker shade of blue.

The tentamer spoke to fill the silence of Prowl's surprise.

"You okay? That tiger didn't get you too bad, did it?" He flitted a little closer, looking Prowl over with pale blue eyes. His gaze caught on something, and he hissed sympathetically. "Ooh, you're gonna have to treat that, love."

Prowl looked down at himself. The source of the throbbing pain made itself apparent in a bite mark two thirds down Prowl's tail. Prowl looked back at the tentamer, finally finding his words. "It would have been worse if it weren't for you."

The tentamer smiled. "Happy to have helped, love. I'm Jazz." He held out his hand, index and middle finger outstretched.

"Prowl." Prowl reached out and touched the tentamer's fingers with his own in a rather belated greeting.

Jazz smiled again. "Good to meet you." He looked over Prowl's frame. "You need bandages? 'Cause I got some." He gestured to the belt about his waist, much like Prowl's own.

"No, it's alright, I have some. I left them with–" Smokescreen! Bluestreak!

Forgetting the manners and etiquette he'd been raised into, Prowl turned tail and swam towards the coral outcrop. Were they still there? Had they fled when the tiger shark showed up?

Prowl swam under the outcropping, peering into the little cave between the coral and sandy stone. There they were, scared but safe, staring up at him with wide eyes as Smokescreen clutched Bluestreak to his body.

"Prowl!" In moments, Prowl had his arms full of youngling. He held them close, let them bury their faces in his chest, clutch at the fins on his arms and back.

"I thought that shark'd got you," Smokescreen mumbled. Prowl could taste his tears in the water, sweeter than the surrounding seas.

"It didn't, as you can see." Prowl stroked their backs. "I'm fine."

Bluestreak's small hands touched Prowl's tail. "You're hurt!"

Smokescreen withdrew from Prowl's arms, swimming to the back of the little hole. "I'll get your stuff!"

"There's no panic, Smokey," Prowl soothed, sinking down to rest on the sand. Bluestreak shifted in Prowl's arms, looping small, plump arms about Prowl's neck. "We scared it away."

Smokescreen swam back, Prowl's satchel in his hands and a frown on his face. "'We'? Who's 'we'?"

A shadow fell over them. "That'd be me." The tentamer was upside down, and Prowl noticed for the first time the nubs of horns on his head.

Smokescreen darted to Prowl's side, hiding behind him. "Who're you?" he snapped, ever suspicious. Prowl couldn't find it amusing, only sad; he wished he hadn't raised his brother to be so fearful of others. Things would be different for Bluestreak, Prowl hoped.

"I'm Jazz, nice 't meet you." The tentamer waved. "I helped your 'creator out with the shark."

Prowl shook his head. "Oh I-I'm not their procreator. I'm their brother."

Jazz had questions, Prowl could see. But he didn't voice them. "Well, you two've got a pretty good big brother." He nodded to the satchel in Smokescreen's hands. "You gonna help your brother bandage himself, younglin'?"

"Yeah, so you can scram." Smokescreen stuck out his tongue.

Jazz laughed quietly. The sound made the spines on Prowl's back shiver, but not unpleasantly. "Alright," Jazz said, "I can see where I'm not wanted. I'll be off."

The tentamer pushed off the outcrop above them, revealing his lower half. Smokescreen gasped, pushing closer against Prowl's side. Jazz only smiled, and turned away.

"Wait!"

Jazz paused, twisting in the water to face Prowl. He said nothing, just looked expectantly. His pale blue eyes seemed all too knowing.

"You're going to the pod gathering, right?" Prowl stroked an absent hand over Bluestreak's back.

"Yep. You are too?"

Prowl nodded. "Do you…" He hesitated. "The way is dangerous. If you come with us, help me protect my brothers, I can find a way to pay you back for it."

Jazz's skin flickered red, then pink, then silver. "I'd help any youngling that needs it, free of charge."

Prowl didn't believe that for a moment, but still, he said, "So… you'll join us?"

"Sure." Jazz's smile was easy and casual in a way Prowl had never mastered. "Strength in numbers, right?"

Tentamers were notorious for being loners. Prowl nodded. "Yes." And what to say next? The agreement was made, leaving Prowl unsure of what to do.

Jazz swam into the little cave, just far enough that he didn't scare the younglings too much. "Why don't I help you bandage up, and you let your brothers take their meal."

Right! The fish. Prowl shifted Bluestreak in his arms and untied the two fish from his belt. "Go on," he said, handing both to Smokescreen and taking the satchel. With little urging, Smokescreen and Bluestreak swam to the back of the outcrop, whispering together while they ate.

Jazz drew closer. "They're sweet," he said in a low voice, taking the bandages that Prowl handed him.

"They are." _They're everything to me._

Jazz sunk down onto the sand beside Prowl, his tentacles coiling close to his body. His hands were gentle as they probed about the tooth marks on Prowl's tail. The tips of his fingers turned the same white as Prowl's scales.

"Ain't too bad," he said. "It'll heal by the time the gatherin's over, but you won't be winnin' any races any time soon."

"I don't intend to." Prowl braced himself against the sand-smoothed stone.

Jazz hummed. The sound tickled against Prowl's back-spines. "Sit back and relax, Prowler, I'll get you wrapped up in no time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is my favourite prompt answer yet! Really fun to write, I hope I can write more :DD  
> As always, comments and kudos :)) thanks for reading


	5. Write about an illegal activity.

Jazz raced after the dark-painted mech through the streets of midday Iacon. Traffic had eased up since the morning rush, something Jazz could only be thankful of when his quarry transformed and leapt over the side of the highway. Jazz followed after, the world a blur as he fell down to the highway that wound below, and then down again to the streets proper. 

It took Jazz only a moment to orient himself, quickly spying the tell-tail wings of the mech he was chasing. Weaving skillfully along the sidewalk, Jazz bounded after the doorwinged mech.

Block after block, they ran. Jazz was gaining ground, and they both knew it. His Enforcer-grade armor did nothing to weigh Jazz down–he’d worn heavier armor for more tiring chases.

The mech turned a corner, leaving Jazz’s line of sight for a few seconds. Jazz dug his claws into the brickwork, swinging himself around the corner without losing momentum. He ran straight into another mech jogging around the corner.

The other bot let out a squawk of surprise, losing his balance. He reached out for something to catch himself on. His hand seized in a vice about Jazz’s forearm. Already off-balanced, Jazz found himself pulled to the ground with a clatter of armor.

Jazz’s engine roared as he untangled himself unceremoniously from the other bot. Leaping to his feet, Jazz stared about the street, data flickering over the HUD of his visor. But his quarry had escaped, along with several priceless pieces of jewelry.

Frustration sent another rumble through Jazz’s engine. A twitch from his pedes, however, made him pause. Glancing down, he saw the mech he’d knocked over, staring up at him with large blue optics.

“Sorry ‘bout that, mech,” Jazz said as amiably as he could through gritted teeth. He extended a servo to help the other up. “Was chasin’ a thief.”

The bot reached out and took Jazz’s servo. With a heave, Jazz pulled the other to his pedes. Upright, the bot was just barely shorter than Jazz, and smaller compared to Jazz’s Enforcer-armored frame. The mech’s white plating was accented by black. The only color on him was the red of his chevron and the transparent-blue glass on his doorwings.

Those doorwings dipped low in apology as the mech said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pull you down.” His gaze flicked guardedly to the Enforcer insignias on Jazz’s shoulders, but Jazz couldn’t find it in him to be surprised–not everyone trusted the Enforcers and their ilk, and often with good reason.

“You gonna be okay, mech?” Jazz asked. “I didn’t dent you, did I?”

The bot ran his servos down his front. “Doesn’t seem like it.” He looked up. “Are you okay, officer?” Ice-blue optics flickered over Jazz’s frame.

Jazz scoffed again. “I’m fine,” he said, not bothering to correct the mech. Cordon sure as Pit wouldn’t be fine, though. Mech would probably be madder than a wet turbofox that Jazz went and leapt ahead after the thief– especially when it wasn’t really his job anymore to go running after snatchers. But hey, if Cordon couldn’t keep up, Jazz couldn’t afford to slow down.

Jazz sighed, glancing over the street. The dark, doorwinged thief was long gone. “Sorry for runnin’ ya down, mech,” he said to the white doorwinger. Flicking off a small salute, Jazz said, “Don’t go runnin’ too fast ‘round corners, yeah? I’ve sure as Pit learned my lesson.”

The white mech nodded curtly. “I’ll see you around, officer,” he said. Then he stepped around Jazz and walked off. When Jazz turned around, the mech had vanished into the crowd.

Shaking his head, Jazz opened a comm. link to Cordon.

Prowl scaled the rickety fire-escape. The old metal clanged and clattered under his weight, but it didn’t matter; the neighbors wouldn’t care.

The window of the fifth floor was open. Prowl slipped into the dingy apartment, turning around to close the window behind him.

“Barricade,” he called quietly. “I’m back.”

From the berthroom, Barricade emerged. His amber optics flashed, and his mouth split into wide grin. “Good job back there, kiddo. Got that cop right good.”

“Those words don’t go together in that order,” Prowl huffed. He made his way to the kitchenette, sticking a cube under the dispenser. Energon came out–lowgrade, but still energon. Prowl drank it down quickly.

“Not too fast, kid, you’re gonna choke.” Barricade squeezed by, pulling open the refrigerator. “‘Sides, I got something better than that slag.” He turned back around. In his hands was a tray of cobalt sweets, clumsily shaped but perfectly baked.

Prowl felt an unfamiliar but genuine smile on his lips. “When did you have time to make those?” he asked, following behind Barricade as the older mech went out to the main living room, setting the tray down on the battered coffee table.

“While you were scoping the site one last time yesterday. Thought I oughta have a treat for us after we succeeded.” Barricade grinned, sitting down on the couch. He pulled a cobalt sweet from the wax-paper and popped it in his mouth.

Prowl eagerly copied the movements. He took two more from the tray and held them in his hand, for after he’d finished the first. “You must have been very sure we’d succeed,” he said, dropping onto the couch’s threadbare cushions.

Barricade snorted. “Of course! I got you and that fantastic processor on my side, how could I not?”

“I'm not just my processor,” Prowl murmured.

“...I know, kiddo.” Barricade’s grin faded to a more reassuring smile. “We’re all more’n our pasts or our abilities, and that's the most important lesson I can give you.”

Another smile turned Prowl’s lips. He ducked his helm, popping another sweet into his mouth. “Thanks, ‘Cade,” he mumbled around the sweet.

Barricade smiled. “I got another thing for ya too. Hang on a minute.” He pushed up off the couch and walked into the berthroom. He emerged seconds later, a safe the size of Prowl’s helm in his arms.

Prowl straightened up. “What is that?”

Barricade dropped the safe onto the coffee table beside the tray of sweets. “It’s the safe full of valuables I snatched, kiddo. ‘Think it should be obvious.”

Prowl frowned. “I can see that. Why did you bring it? Is that why the alarms went off?” Annoyance pulled down the corners of Prowl’s mouth.

“Maybe.” Barricade flashed a grin. “Couldn’t resist the temptation of another lesson for you, kid. Now sit over here, I’ll show you how to crack this.”

It took Prowl fifteen minutes to open the safe, with Barricade’s minimal guidance. They extracted the loot and set the glittering jewelry on the table. Prowl admired the twinkle and the colors. Then Barricade proceeded to make Prowl crack the safe again and again for the next four hours, until Prowl could open it in five minutes.

“That’ll do for today.” Barricade stretched, his back groaning. “C’mon, time for more live lessons. Wanna drop by the market, see what you can snatch?”

Prowl nodded. “Sure.”

Iacon was a huge city, and markets were as abundant as cafes. The closest market to their current apartment was at the Solar Square, so they went to the one by Hexa Park; ‘never steal where you shop’ had been one of Prowl’s first lessons under Barricade’s tutelage.

Prowl transformed and stepped off onto the sidewalk. With a whirl of gears and plating, Barricade followed. They made their way into the crowded square, full of stalls and colors and flashing things. Prowl couldn’t help a shiver of excitement–as much as he enjoyed the quiet, he enjoyed the bustle of a market just as much. It felt good to be an anonymous face in the crowd, a nameless bot forgotten within moments. That, and the thrill of getting away with stealing.

Barricade clapped a hand down on Prowl’s shoulder. “I’ll meet you back here in forty minutes. If something goes wrong, I’ll meet you at the apartment.”

“Alright.” Prowl shrugged off Barricade’s servo. “See you later.”

Barricade grinned. “See you later, kiddo.” He took a step to the side, then vanished into the crowd.

Flicking his wings, Prowl plunged into the twist and crush of the market. Idly, he wandered from stall to stall, his gaze catching occasionally on a glittering trinket. It was incredibly easy to pluck a ring from a velvet-bedded display, a magnet-locked charm from a rack. Despite how he wanted to wear them, Prowl slipped the shiny things into his subspace.

Cheap nothings fell victim to Prowl’s light fingers and quick processor. They were worthless, objectively, but they were bright and colorful. Prowl twisted a soft, satin ribbon between his digits as he stepped away from yet another poorly-watched stall.

Then, through the crowd, a flash of silver caught Prowl’s optic. It was such a lovely silver, too, almost matte, but still bright. And familiar. Prowl wove through the market-goers, and soon found that his suspicions were correct– it was the Enforcer from earlier that day, the one he’d kept from catching Barricade.

The Enforcer was standing by one of the food stalls, waiting on a cube, probably. He rocked on his heels, his clawed servos set casually on his hips. His dark blue visor hid his gaze, but Prowl could just tell he was alert; it was something about the way he held himself, the way he balanced. Alert, always alert.

Prowl took a step forward– why, he wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter because the moment he did he was bowled over. Prowl struck the ground with a clang and a clatter. His optics flickered and reset. Indignant, Prowl turned to argue with whoever had knocked him over, but the large tank-former was already several meters away, moving at a quick, purposeful pace.

“Tch.” Prowl rubbed his right palm, scraped and dented from where he’d flung his hand out to catch himself.

“That was rough, mech. Pretty rude of him to keep on goin’ without an apology.” Silver flashed in Prowl’s vision, accompanied by an extended, clawed servo.

Reaching out, Prowl let the silver mech pull him up to his pedes. Prowl’s plating tingled at the contact.

“Oh! It’s you.” The silver mech grinned easily. “You must be pretty unlucky, getting knocked over twice in one day.”

Prowl resettled his plating, stalling for time as he struggled to find words. “Thank you, officer,” was what he finally settled on.

“It’s ‘detective’, actually.” The Enforcer grinned. “Detective Jazz.” He bent and picked something up from the ground. “Here, you dropped this.”

It was Prowl’s stolen ribbon. “Keep it,” said Prowl, shaking his helm. “It matches your visor.” The blue of the ribbon was almost the exact shade of the Enforcer’s glowing visor. Prowl wondered how hard it would be to find an exact match.

Jazz’s grin widened slightly. The ribbon vanished into his subspace. “You often give things to mechs who knocked you down?”

“I haven’t offered anything to that tank-former, have I?”

"Heh, no, I guess not."

Prowl looked at the mech. Just looked– at the shiny set of his plating, the glow of his visor. _I want to steal him_ , Prowl thought.

Prowl smiled. He didn't know if it looked right, but the detective smiled back. "Do you want to go get some energon?" Prowl asked. "I can pay you back for that mishap earlier."

Jazz shrugged. "Sure, why not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is actually the first chapter of a fic I was planning to write, but I don't have the energy for long-term projects, so I'll maybe work through it with this prompt fic.  
> As always, comments and kudos are welcomed and asked for :)


	6. Delivery by Son Lux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt is a song that I played on repeat while writing, and may be found at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=juYPheHm80Y

Jazz slipped through the dark alleys of Kaon. The stench of misery filled his olfactories, a combined scent of spilt energon, fluids, interface. The Enforcers never bothered to clean up the grime down here.

Cheap canvases, but sometimes one had to make do.

He prowled the dark, listening. Was there a voice good enough to sing forever? A frame lovely enough to be immortalized? Or beautiful optics, perhaps, but they always faded and Jazz had given up on that particular artful venture.

He wandered through the lowest of the low. They stared at him, bleary with drugs or fearful and hungry. But they didn't reach for him, just looked away quickly. He was more dangerous than they were.

Then he saw it, the most lovely creature. Black and white, shining amongst the filth and mire. And on his back, wings. Jazz loved wings, the way they twitched, the way they flared. He would see them forever displayed, to be seen, looked on, enjoyed.

His prey did not stalk as Jazz did. He walked boldly, tall, too clean for this place. He was looking for something. Danger hung about him like a veil, shrouding him, but those wings… beautiful, flared, bold.

Jazz followed, captivated. Invisible. His canvases never knew what they were meant to be until he finally stepped from the shadows and took them.

They moved through the dark of Kaon, a graceful angel and his shadow. Jazz didn't pay attention to anything but those wings, the way his canvas moved, the way he looked neither left nor right, the way he walked like a dancer, a fighter, an acrobat.

Then that lovely canvas stopped, just outside a warehouse. Then he vanished. If Jazz weren't watching him so closely, he might have lost him. Tucked low, those wings slipped through the murky dark. Up and over and through an open window. Jazz followed, a shadow for a shadow.

Inside was clearly a gang operation. Drugs, weapons, nothing Jazz hadn't seen many times before.

His angel moved amongst the gangers unseen. He stopped and started, always vigilant. A good choice, Jazz thought. He'd chosen so well today. Maybe he would keep this one for himself, to look at whenever he liked, rather than let the city have him.

Then up, up the stairs to the rooms overlooking the warehouse. The boss would be up there, him and a few selected goons. What would happen, Jazz wondered. Why was his canvas here, so intent but so well hidden. A vigilante? Oh, that would be lovely. Ideas swam through Jazz's head, positions and colors, ways to bring this canvas to his full potential.

There was a moment where Jazz had to lag behind. A ugly thing passed before him, drugged up and so full of itself, sure that its position in the gang would keep it from rejoining the muck of Kaon's underside. Untrue. They would all join the grime eventually, layer on layer of sediment.

He finally caught up with his canvas. The lights were dim. A table, there, with papers scattered over it. A few chairs. A weak attempt at riches, as though this gang leader thought he might rise above the rest. Disgusting.

Bodies on the floor, two of them. Their throats cut cleanly, life energon spilling and pooling. Jazz wanted to dip his fingers in that shining paint, but he knew that the color would fade and turn ugly before long. Such a disappointment, the first time he had learned that.

Behind the desk, in the chair, a still body. Still alive, his eyes open, fearful. And behind him, a knife against the ganger creature's neck, Jazz's canvas stood. He shone in the low light, black and white, stark and lovely. His wings flared, high and wide.

"You have a part to play."

Oh, how lovely that voice. Jazz could hear its song now, sweet and high.

"Who sent you? I will pay you more than they did." said the creature in a hoarse growl, faking courage. Disgust flared through Jazz. He wanted that creature to be silent, wanted to see only his canvas, pale and lovely.

"No one sent me." The winged angel touched a digit stained with energon to the ganger's cheek. "This must be done, it is the way of things."

The ganger twitched, jerked away. The angel wrapped his arms about the creature's head, pulled him back into an embrace, back against that full, lovely chest. Jazz wanted to rip the ganger from his canvas's arms– that ugly creature had no right to lie against that clear, shining plating, to dirty it with his filth.

"I'll do anything," the ganger begged. Pathetic.

"Play your part," whispered the canvas. "Don't worry, your death will make little ripples, which will make bigger ripples, and I will see how things change. This is your gift to Kaon." Then he drew his knife across the ganger's throat. Bright paint spilled out, over the shuddering body's chest.

The angel stepped back, walked around the desk, set his hands on his hips and considered his work. It was well done, Jazz had to admit. The fall of life-energon was almost uniform. No artistic flair, though, not good enough in Jazz's opinion.

But his canvas was distracted, and maybe he could take him here.

Jazz stepped from the shadows, silent as ever. Within moments, he had his prey in his arms, down on the ground. Those wings splayed out on the grimy floor, beautiful. Large, bright blue optics stared up into Jazz's visor, pretty lips parted.

Then the angel laughed. Bright, ringing, bell-like. "I had wondered when you would act." His laugh faded, but it still rang in Jazz's audials.

"I guess I'm not as good as I thought."

His canvas smirked, tilted his head. A bright, red chevron crowned his helm. A pretty touch. "No, you're good. I'm just better."

Jazz hummed, flexed his digits about those slender wrists. He'd settled his weight carefully, heavy enough to pin but not to dent. He didn't want to damage, not yet.

"Well," Jazz murmured, "I guess this just means I chose well."

Those keen optics searched his own. "You're like me," his angel whispered. "A killer."

"I'm an artist." Jazz looked that graceful body over. "And you were meant to be my canvas, angel."

"Were?" The other tilted his head. Unbothered by his vulnerable position. Jazz felt something like desire coil in his belly, but he never desired his canvases carnally. Perhaps that was a sign this one wasn't meant to be a canvas– at least, not a dead one.

"After what I just saw," Jazz looked over at the body, slumped behind the desk, "It would be a waste to kill you."

"Hm." That shining white helm turned, looked at the body. "I'm not done yet, you know. There are still things to be set, to create the right ripples."

Jazz felt his desire surge just that much higher. "You're an artist too."

Pleasure flashed in his counterpart's optics. A smile flickered over those plush lips, small but pleased. "But bodies are not my canvas." He closed his optics, let his head fall back. "No, it's Kaon. She's beautiful, you know. A touch here, a prod there, and she shifts into something subtly different." His optics opened, alight with passion. "I want to see all the shapes she has."

Jazz wanted to kiss those lips. He hadn't felt such passion in so long, hadn't tasted something so sweet that he hadn't himself made. No, this one couldn't be wasted on death.

"Maybe we can help one another."

Large optics blinked, slow and cat-like. "Oh?"

"I'm an artist of the frame. I know how to shape and sculpt. I can help you poke and prod at Kaon." Jazz grinned. "I can teach you how to make a better stage of your canvas." He glanced against at the body. The energon had begun to congeal, but still held a little shine to it. Ugly, Jazz thought. The angel beneath him was so much more beautiful.

"And what do you get?" asked the lovely creature splayed on the floor.

"You." Jazz bent his head, gave in to the urge to brush his lips against the other's. "I want to see you shaped, I want to see who you are."

The angel's optics flashed, an answering passion, lust, desire. "Yes," he whispered, soft, so soft.

Jazz pressed his forehead against his companion's. "Will you give me your name?" he asked. "Mine is Jazz."

"Prowl."

Jazz stole the name into his mouth, covered the angel's lips with his own. "Perfect."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have. no idea what any of this means. I just listened to the song my friend suggested to me and my coherent impression was: serial killers.  
> Comments and kudos! I really want to know what you think of this, I've never written anything like it before.


	7. Dancing in the dark

Prowl stumbled as his knee gave out again. His palm scraped painfully against the rough stone to his left as he caught himself. The single working headlight on his chest flickered, but didn't turn off, still lighting the endless dark of the tunnel before him.

This was a very unexpected outcome to what should have been a routine skirmish.

Prowl limped along, on and on. He'd fallen a good thirty, forty meters when the seekers' strafing run had cracked open the ground beneath his feet. The mechs around him, well, they'd survived the fall, but not the rocks and debris that came crashing down on all of them. Prowl had gotten lucky; he'd been able to crawl far enough away before they all got crushed.

He'd lain there for a while, recovering, mere inches from the still-settling stones. Finally, he'd hauled himself up, assessed his injuries, and begun to walk.

He'd been walking for an hour now. The mild decline of the tunnel floor meant he'd been going down, not up, but Prowl hadn't really had a choice. It was this, or wait for rescue that was never coming; the fall had damaged his comms, and… well, no one else had survived.

An uneven turn in the ground made his knee buckle yet again. Prowl caught himself on his hands and knees, the impact jarring through his frame. The headlight on his chest flickered once, twice, then died.

Frowning, Prowl tried to revive it, to no avail.

"Primus damn it." His voice resounded in the tunnel. Prowl instantly regretted speaking.

Taking a few breaths to ease his frustration, Prowl forced his frame to relax. He turned off his optics– they were useless now, without light. Bending his helm, Prowl lifted his doorwings, twisting them this way and that. They fluttered on his back as he adjusted to the change.

This wasn't ideal; there were doorwingers who could guide themselves only by the input of their doorwings, yes, but Prowl was not practiced with such things.

Well, he'd be getting quite a lot of practice for the foreseeable future.

Prowl pulled himself back up to his pedes. The sound of his movement pinged faintly off the walls. His doorwings twitched against the air current– Prowl's only hope in the last hour that he might actually be getting somewhere.

He carried on.

As he walked, he worked his doorwings. Flexed the panels, flared them out, trying to gather more data. He'd never been more thankful he'd kept his full sensor suite, despite the painfully crowded nature of Autobot bases.

He walked for a few minutes more, testing the ways in which he could 'see' with his doorwings. Then he passed something. For a second it just felt like a void, before his sensors pinged out and he realized it was another tunnel.

Alright, not that worrisome. Prowl didn't go down that tunnel, though; he didn't want to risk getting more lost than he already was.

The size of Prowl's tunnel had fluctuated as he'd walked, but now it began to increase slightly, the ceiling rising, the walls widening. He passed more tunnel entrances, all either descending or ascending, but Prowl didn't feel up to exploring. Besides, the air current was consistent in this direction.

Was it a natural cave system? Prowl wondered. Or perhaps the warren of some long extinct creature. Neither thought gave him much comfort.

Then he thought, what if there's something else down here?

That sent a shiver through his body, a thrill of terror that lasted a few moments. Prowl scolded himself when it was over; it was juvenile to fear empty shadows, or even to assume they weren't empty.

Still, he hunched a little more, and tucked his wings as much as he could without disrupting the sensor input.

Some twenty minutes later, Prowl stepped forward into void. Well, not void. But certainly a cavern too large for his unpracticed sensors to fathom.

Prowl skirted the very edge, keeping to the wall. It was unsettling to stretch his wings up and only barely feel the ceiling high above, or to flex them out and be unable to detect the far wall. Just how big was this chamber?

Weariness washed over Prowl suddenly. It tasted not unlike despair.

Rest, he decided. He needed rest, recuperation. Perhaps afterwards he could face this challenge with a clearer mind.

He scraped down the wall, uncaring of the damage to his paint. He curled into himself, face to the wall, his wings to the void-like cavern. Prowl wished he had light, wished he could see. He'd gone dark before, of course, as a youngling. It was a common game to play, to go with just one's doorwings and try to catch your friends. But he'd never had to do it. It had always been a choice.

Prowl considered drinking one of the emergency rations in his subspace, but decided against it. His systems were doing fine, and he hadn't lost much energon in the fall or the aftermath. He'd save the rations for later.

He coiled up just a little tighter, tucked his arms a little closer. There was no need to close his optics.

"Oh, sweetspark, you don't look too good."

Prowl jolted into wakefulness. He felt movement to his right, a wave and a chirr. A spark beat within a warm frame, a reassuring sound after so long with only Prowl's own movements to fill his audials.

Then Prowl remembered he was supposed to be afraid, and he stumbled to his feet, backing up. He had a blaster in his servos in moments, charged and aimed at that spark.

"Who are you?" He flared out his wings, scanning the frame before him. "How did you… get down here." Prowl had quite a lot of questions, but those two seemed pressing enough to express.

"I call myself Jazz." The figure straightened up from the crouch he'd had beside Prowl. He was about Prowl's height, but slightly broader about the shoulders. Prowl could make out no more details than that without light for his optics. "I live down here."

"What?" Prowl took a step back.

The mech (it had to be a mech, though Prowl couldn't tell what his altmode was) lifted his hands. "I know, it's a bit different. But trust me, I'm not gonna hurt you." He paused, and Prowl could only surmise that he was looking Prowl over. (But how? It was pitch black.) "You look like you've had enough of that already."

Prowl's knee, aching from his hasty rise, chose that moment to give out. Prowl tensed for impact on the hard stone floor, but there was no need. Two strong hands had seized about his upper arms, keeping him upright. Prowl regained his footing and hurriedly pushed those hands away, aiming his blaster at the mech again. The warmth of the contact lingered.

"Look, jus' calm down, mech," the mech –Jazz, he'd called himself Jazz– said soothingly. "I'm a little shaken up too– 'm not used to visitors. How'd you even get down here?"

Prowl resettled his plating, flicked his doorwings. "I fell."

"You fell?" Surprise tinged Jazz's voice. "It's a long way to fall."

"So I'm aware." Prowl could help the wry note in his voice. The other mech laughed, rich and low. It resounded through the chamber, over and over. Prowl's wings caught it all, and he finally had some inkling as to the mapping of the cavern; it felt natural, not mech-made, and there were offshoots and tunnels here and there, though not all were level with the ground.

"What is this place?" Prowl turned his face to the mech, even though his optics were offline.

"It used to be home to… well, nowadays they're called Insecticons."

"Insecticons?" Those beasts that the Decepticons had created? The mere thought of the barely-sentient creatures sent shivers down Prowl's spine.

Jazz shrugged. "They were different, once. Normal, I guess you could say. They lived in burrows like this one, beneath the surface of Cybertron. Most of that race has died out, though."

Prowl frowned, lifted his blaster (when had he lowered it?). "How did _you_ come to be down here?"

"I guess you could say I fell, like you did." Jazz's helm tilted to the side. "I can show you the way out if you put down that gun."

There really was no point in keeping his blaster trained on the mech. And if Prowl did end up having to shoot him, what then? He'd starve in the dark.

He put the blaster into subspace.

"Show me the way out." After a moment, Prowl added, "please."

Jazz shook his head. "It's more'n a day's walk to the nearest surface exit, and you're in need of repairs." He turned his back to Prowl and began to walk away. "My den's not far. I can fix you up and fuel you there. Come on."

Prowl desperately wanted to follow, but he stayed where he stood. "I need to know your motives first."

The mech paused, and the slightly static shape that was his helm turned. "It's lonely down here, mech. 'Sides, I know what it's like to get lost. Don't wish that on anyone."

Jazz kept walking. Prowl surged to follow him, fearful of being left the void and silence.

Even if this mech ended up killing him, it would be a better death than fading away with only his own regrets for company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Jess_Licks for the prompt for today! I enjoyed writing this.  
> Can you guess why Jazz is down there? (I thought of that little piece of world from the Warrior Cats series with that Fallen Leaves cat in the caves and shit and while Warriors is far behind me it is one of the many books to shape the way I write so I grudgingly admire it.)  
> Thanks for the positive response to yesterday's chapter!!


	8. As I was caged.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Chapter 1 and Chapter 3's oneshots.

The smell of antiseptic was what woke him. Prowl jolted into wakefulness, his optics flashing online. He was lying on a slab, and up above was a terribly familiar grey ceiling. The world was white, and the smell of antiseptic stung his nostrils.

Prowl didn't think. He just moved.

Up and off that cold metal slab. His wings clattered against a metal stand bearing instruments and equipment. Prowl pushed it away, as far from himself as he could. It tilted over a few feet away, the instruments scattering over the scrubbed, white floor.

The lights were so bright. Prowl turned away from them, barreling away from that berth he'd suffered so much pain upon. His servos touched a wall, and Prowl followed it to the corner.

Somewhere in the back of his mind was a voice, telling him that he wasn't thinking clearly. Prowl shut it out, shut everything out. He hunched in the corner, curled as tight as he could make himself. He buried his face in his knees, laced his fingers behind his head. His wings were not large enough in this form to cocoon him, but he did his best to simulate the sensation.

Prowl rocked himself there, in a world as dark as he could make it. Light still filtered through, but it was bearable. Prowl crooned to himself, chirred, little comforts that his older brother used to give when Prowl'd had nightmares. Primus, he missed Barricade so much.

The pain of the past countless days (or months? had it been months?) crashed over him, and Prowl couldn't help the sobs that surged up into his throat.

"Brother! Brother!" It was useless to cry out for someone who was too far away to hear him. Prowl choked on the words, tried to remember when he would call for Barricade and his brother would come and chase away the dark and the nightmares. The warmth of his brother was faded, a memory too old to hold much comfort.

Prowl tightened his arms over his helm, pressed himself closer into the corner, into himself. He screamed and wept as the terror of recent events finally resolved itself into something more than just an endless nightmare.

A voice worked through the rush in Prowl's audials. Low, soothing, musical. It was a mixture of words, all unfamiliar, and of the click and whirr of youngling binary.

"Chuchuchu, is okay, _sweet_." That word, the one that the silver surface-dweller had called him.

Prowl uncurled just a little, lifting his helm. A few feet away, the silver mech crouched, pressed against the wall. His visor had been retracted, baring bright blue optics. He had a soft expression. He opened his mouth and spoke again, that mixture of binary and Cybertronian.

"You okay, _sweet_. Is all okay. _You aren't there anymore_."

The silver mech crept forward just a little. Prowl only watched him, sobs still tightening his chest, tears still spilling from his optics. A silver servo reached out, the sharp claws curled in.

"Scared." The word escaped Prowl's lips in answering binary. He took a hitching breath, uncurled just a little more.

"I know. Is okay."

Prowl couldn't help it. He lurched forward, throwing himself against the silver mech's chest. He felt the frame tense, then forcefully relax. Prowl wrapped his arms about the mech's abdomen, buried his face into the mech's shoulder, curled up as tight as he could in the mech's lap. Slowly, arms wrapped loosely about Prowl's back, under his wings.

Prowl shuddered with his sobs, but the warmth of another frame was helping. He tried to imagine that this mech was Barricade, that he himself was a youngling again, scared of nothing more than a shadow in his room.

A servo stroked over Prowl's back, a featherlight touch. Prowl felt his whole frame relax incrementally, bit by bit. His fright began to fade, and with it his tears and sobs.

He sat there for a while, in the surfacer's arms, until his plating began to itch from the contact and his processor whispered that this mech was not, in fact his brother.

Then Prowl pulled himself away. Not frantically, but slowly, out and back to the corner he'd chosen.

With the fog of fear dissipated, Prowl realized now that he was not back in the purple surfacer's lab. The walls were not the same shade of white, the equipment of different make. But that did not mean this place was any different from the purple one's lab.

"Where?" Prowl warbled in binary.

" _Iacon_. Heal place." The silver mech tilted his head, a small, comforting smile on his face. "Safe now, _sweet_. Not hurt you. Promise."

Prowl frowned. "Promise?" He still couldn't tell if he could trust this surfacer. This mech had saved him, yes, and judging by the lack of pain, he'd had Prowl fixed as well.

Give the appearance of trust, Prowl decided. Until he could escape, he would act as though he trusted this mech.

The silver mech smiled a little wider. "Promise." He touched a hand to his chest. "Am Jazz."

"Am Prowl." Prowl looked around the room. He'd messed things up with his frantic scramble. Would someone be angry about it? But this silver one seemed rather invested in Prowl. Perhaps he would make sure none of the surfacers would act on their anger. "Others?" Prowl asked, nodding to the double doors on the far side of the room.

The silver mech nodded. "Big one, heal one. Want see you."

Prowl thought quickly. Jazz had been part of some operation when he took Prowl, that much was evident from the stealth factor, his stealing something from the computer, and the hostile reaction of the patrols. A rebellion, perhaps, or a faction at war with another.

On Jazz's chest was a red symbol that had not been present before (or perhaps Prowl had simply not noticed it); a face, of sorts, geometrically styled. Clearly a marker of alliance.

Prowl pointed at it. "That what?"

Jazz looked down at his chest, tapping a claw against the red face. " _Oh, this ol' thing?_ " He paused, clearly searching for something that would translate into the limited binary language. "It mean… _Autobots_. Friend, good, fix." He hissed, grimacing.

Prowl smiled at the mech's struggle. A rebellion, then, if he could guess from the adjectives given. It didn't really matter, though. He just needed to confirm that this was a near military operation. Those were always alike, no matter the language. It would be easier to endear himself to these surfacers until he found the opportunity to escape.

He tipped his chin to the door. "They want see me?"

Jazz nodded. "They come?"

Prowl pursed his lips and nodded. The silver surfacer called out in his language, summoning the mechs beyond the door. Prowl readied himself to be as good a captive as he could stand to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this prompt from opening my copy of God Emperor of Dune by Frank Herbert to a random page and pointing. I ended up with this.  
> I highkey have no idea where I'm going with this particular AU, but I guess we'll find out eventually. Comments are always pleasing to read, and I do my best to reply :))


	9. Whispers in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Chapter 7: Dancing in the dark

Prowl kept his attention on the figure before him. Jazz led him through the tunnels with the ease of someone very familiar with them.

If the nearest exit was a day's walk away, then the warren itself must be tens of kilometers in diameter in the very least. Just how long had this mech been down here? And how had he known the history of it? Prowl had certainly never heard of any race preceding the Insecticons, much less a race that had burrows throughout the surface of Cybertron.

So many questions, but Prowl had to choose carefully which ones to ask; any mech who had been alone as long as this mech claimed was undoubtedly unstable.

"Jus' around the bend here," said Prowl's enigmatic guide, breaking the near uniform silence of their passage thus far. "Don't mind any mess. You can probably guess that I don't get a lot of visitors."

Around the bend was a small chamber, about the size of standard quarters in an Autobot base. Jazz walked to the middle of the chamber, turning to face Prowl with his arms spread.

"Home sweet home." His voice had a smile in it. "Y' can turn on your optics, I've got light sources here."

Prowl set the command, and his optics flickered online. After so long in the dark, even the low light of Jazz's den made Prowl squint against it. He looked around, adjusting to sight once more.

It didn't look much different from how his doorwings assessed. A pile of soft fabrics and such lay against the wall, likely serving as Jazz's berth. Sitting on shelves carved into the stone were little trinkets of mixed origins– a charm, a gem, a scrap of metal. Prowl thought he spied a broken blaster, but he couldn't be sure in the shadows. The light sources Jazz mentioned turned out to be ancient lamps powered by ion cells.

"I've actually got quite a few boltholes along these tunnels," said Jazz from behind. He was rummaging through some objects squirreled away under a stone. "You're lucky I was around here, otherwise you probably woulda just wandered around until you died."

"The thought had occurred to me."

Jazz's laugh made Prowl's wings flutter. "You're funny, mech," Jazz chuckled. "In a morbid kinda way."

Prowl hummed noncommittally. Stepping forward, he studied the objects on the shelves. Yes, that was indeed a blaster, albeit a very old model. Reaching out, Prowl picked up the charm, turning about so that he could better examine it in the light.

Recognition nearly had Prowl dropping it in surprise. The Praxian courting charm tinkled pleasantly against his digits, the old, slightly tarnished metal carefully crafted in the shape of twining crystal-vines.

"You like it?"

Prowl jumped, turning wide optics on Jazz. "I… yes, I suppose." Holding a relic of his lost city was almost painful, but objectively the charm was very nice to look at.

Jazz smiled. "You can have it if you want."

Prowl felt his wings flutter wildly with his embarrassment. "Oh, no, no that's alright." He quickly set the courting charm back on the shelf. It sat there, twinkling at him in the low light, a reminder of an era long gone.

Behind him, Jazz shrugged. "Okay. It's yours if you want it. I think it would look nice on you." He stepped away. "Come on, sit down here, I'll fix you up."

Prowl followed Jazz and sat where he was told, which turned out to be in the pile of fabrics and cloths. It was rather like a nest, Prowl considered, arranging himself as Jazz bade him.

Jazz pulled Prowl's injured leg into his lap, bending over the knee. "It ain't as bad as it could be, given how far you musta fallen," he said. With a dent stylus and a welder, he began to repair the damage.

Prowl watched Jazz as he worked, finally able to examine the mech with his optics. Jazz's paint was a light grey that could have been silver if not for the matte texture. He wore a visor over his optics, black and barely reflective. What interested Prowl most, though, was the lack of vehicle-alt kibble. He looked Jazz over again and again, at least as much as he could see of the mech, and found no evidence that the mech turned into either an aerial or a grounder.

"Where'd you get the charm?" Prowl asked, for want of something to say. There were more pressing questions –how long had Jazz been down here, why was he down here, what was he– but Prowl would have to ease into those.

"Found it a while back." Jazz gently realigned the wires in Prowl's knee joint. "I like to go out every now and then. Found that charm in the dust-wake of a convoy. Thought, eh, might as well keep it."

"Hmm." Prowl leaned back, resting his weight on his hands. The soft texture of Jazz's nest was pleasant after so much stone. "Has it been long since you last went to the surface?"

Jazz paused, looking at the far wall in thought. "Yeah, been a while. A few years, maybe?"

"A few years?" Prowl couldn't help the incredulous note that tinged his voice. "How can you…" He trailed off, hesitant to voice his thoughts.

"How've I not gone mad?" Jazz flashed a wry smile at Prowl before returned to his repairs. "I might not leave much, but I got a few friends. They stop by when they can. It's enough for me, really. My kind is a lot more solitary than yours."

"Your kind?"

"Nowadays we're called Predacons."

Shock rattled through Prowl's frame. A multitude of reactions flashed through his mind, ranging from fearful to dumbfounded. In the end, he settled on quiet incredulity.

"I thought Predacons were extinct," Prowl murmured, looking Jazz over with more open optics. He could see, now the signs. The sharp lines in his plating, the curve of the audial horns on his helm. Prowl couldn't guess at what he transformed into, but it was undoubtedly bestial.

"For the most part, yeah." Jazz frowned. "There's jus' a few of us left." He took a breath then let it out. "C'mon, sit up, let me fix your chestplates."

Prowl adjusted himself until he sat cross-legged. Jazz imitated the position, setting to work with his limited tools. He put a patch over Prowl's broken headlight, popped out the dents along his bumper with an almost over-gentle hand.

"Why do you live down here?" Prowl studied Jazz's face, so close to his own.

Jazz pursed his lips, sighing heavily. "You ask a lotta questions for someone who's barely an acquaintance."

Prowl tensed. "My apologies."

The matte silver mech shook his head. "No, no, I don't fault you for it. You're entitled to your curiosity." His servos worked at the unset wires in Prowl's left headlight. "'S been a long time since I've had real company, though, 'n I don't wanna get to know you."

That seemed contrary to Jazz's previous openness. Judging by his closed off expression, though, Prowl's question had sparked a negative reaction.

"Can I ask why?"

Jazz looked up. A small, sad smile turned his lips. "I might wanna keep you, mech." He looked back down. "But that ain't gonna happen. You got a world to go back to."

Silence fell between them, almost uncomfortable. Jazz worked carefully, clearly unpracticed with repairing another's frame. He repaired Prowl's chest, then the scrapes and dents on his forearms. Once finished, he stood up, walking over to the alcove he'd pulled his medical supplies from earlier. Prowl watched him from the mech's nest, and wondered just what it was that could make even a Predacon live in self-imposed isolation. All sentient creatures required some form of interaction, some less than others, granted, but the fact remained that more races were social than not.

"I haven't told you my name," Prowl realized aloud.

Jazz froze. He looked over his shoulder. The black of his visor barely reflected the light of the lamps. "Don't tell me, please." He turned back around. In his hands were two battered cubes filled with a purplish energon. "Here, drink up, then rest. I'll take you to the exit in a few hours."

Prowl took the cube and drank from it. The taste was different from processed energon crystals, more reminiscent of the life-en Prowl would buy sometimes when he was younger, drained from such creatures as petro-rabbits or robo-fish. That's probably what this was, Prowl considered, since he doubted Jazz had mining equipment and anything else required to extract energon from crystals.

Prowl wanted to ask, but Jazz sat hunched as he drank from his own cube, entirely closed off.

Too many questions whirled in Prowl's helm, but he didn't voice any of them. He just sat, and let the silence settle over them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the prompt is that Mumford and Son's song, because it just got stuck in my head yesterday so I wrote it down for today's prompt.  
> It takes me like three hours to write the prompt every day, mainly because I take breaks to read stuff or eat or something. Eh, this is a good exercise to have!  
> Comments and kudos are endlessly appreciated :DD


	10. Author

Prowl sighed heavily, staring at the ceiling of the cavern high above.

It wasn’t that he’d exactly imagined his first expedition as being more story-like… except maybe he had. Prowl was as guilty as the next young mech of high hopes and a desire for adventure. Thus far, the expedition had been more boring than anything else. Well, apart from the destruction of the submarine, that had been very exciting. Too exciting, really.

Prowl sighed again, glancing around the makeshift camp. Hound was keeping watch, a reassuring silhouette in the light of the campfire. Everyone else was sleeping, from what Prowl could see; Wheeljack over there, sleeping back to back with Perceptor in a manner that had Prowl thinking of the military and soldiers. Springer, as light a sleeper as the next soldier, rested at the edge of the firelight. Prowl couldn’t even be sure he was actually sleeping. Ratchet snored shamelessly, so close to the fire that he might accidentally roll into it– ‘the cold gets to my old joints’ he’d said when Prowl cautioned him against it.

Prowl pursed his lips uncertainly, glancing at the leader of their expedition. Sentinel Prime was living up to his name, glaring solemnly out into the dark despite it not being his watch.

Releasing yet another sigh, Prowl rolled over onto his side, huddling into himself. He felt rather vulnerable, as the only intellectual with limited combat experience. Wheeljack and Perceptor were scientists, yes, but they’d fought in the war too. What had Prowl been doing during that time? Learning how to read and speak a dead language, trying to find a lost city. Looking for something to be his legacy with his dreams of joining the enforcers well and truly crushed.

Prowl had never really expected anything to come of his research. Certainly, he hadn't expected Optimus Prime of all mechs to fund an expedition to find the lost city of Polyhex.

Staring out at the mixed terrain of the cavern, Prowl let his vision blurr. Before long, he fell asleep.

What woke him was the frantic shouts of mecha and the roar of some unknown beast. Prowl lurched upright, hauled to his feet by a firm hand about his upper arm.

Springer dragged Prowl towards the far end of the cavern, where a tunnel waited to be explored. Prowl tried looking over his shoulder at the commotion, but the world shook too much from Springer's vicious hold.

"What's going on!" Prowl gasped out. He tripped over a stone, and would have fallen onto his face if not for Springer's vice grip. The triple-changer hauled Prowl up and shouldered on, pulling so hard that Prowl's feel might as well not have been touching the ground.

"Some kind of beast," Springer grunted. "The others'll take care of it. I gotta get you out."

"What! But I could help!" Prowl couldn't help, and they both knew it.

Springer snorted unceremoniously but didn't voice his undoubtedly harsh thoughts on that front. "My orders are to make sure the scholar doesn't die, and I'm doing that."

They had almost reached the entrance to the tunnel. Behind them, a shrieking roar seemed to shake the whole cavern. Wait, no… it _was_ shaking the cavern. Stones and stalactites fell from the high ceiling and shattered on the ground too close for comfort.

Springer placed a hand between Prowl's wings and shoved him forward. "Run, kid, run!"

The words 'I'm not a kid!' were lost in Prowl's breathless dash for the tunnel. A crack reached his ears, and Prowl looked up. There, descending as if in slow motion, was a massive chunk of stone detached from the ceiling.

Prowl's quick mind tracked the trajectory of its fall, knew that the stone would cover the entrance to the tunnel. He started to slow, so that he _wouldn't_ get crushed, but again that hand between his wings pushed him harder.

"Go, go, go!"

Prowl dove into the tunnel, mere moments before the boulder crashed down behind him. He skidded to a halt. "Springer!" Prowl turned back, rushing to the dark, coarse surface. He pushed at it fruitlessly, shoved with all his might. "Springer!" Had the mech been crushed?! Guilty panic washed over Prowl in a resounding, overwhelming wave.

"I'm alive, kid!"

The speed with which relief replaced panic had Prowl's knees buckling. He collapsed against the stone. "Springer, you're alive!"

"Yeah, I hung back when I saw that thing. Look, things're getting cleared up on this side. We got a drill, just gotta get everything up and running. We'll be through this in an hour, two tops. Sit tight."

"A-alright."

Prowl could still hear the rumble of battle, but it was muffled by distance and stone. An hour or two? Prowl didn't know if he could stand to be in the dark that long.

Except… it wasn't quite dark.

Frowning, Prowl turned. A ways away, far at the end of the massive tunnel (it would easily hold the drill without any modifications) was a spot of sunny, golden light.

Scientific curiosity overwhelming his fear, Prowl stepped away from the boulder, walking along down the tunnel. He spared a moment to glance back– Springer had said to stay put. But… it wasn't very far to go…

Prowl made his way down the tunnel. To his excitement, he saw the occasional carving on the wall, unmistakably Polyhexian. He couldn't recognize the depictions, but he caught a few words here and there, faded from age but still legible. Stories, if Prowl had to guess, probably about wars. That was what most carvings tended to be about.

At last, Prowl reached the light. It spilled over him, blinding him briefly before his optics adjusted to it.

"Oh… Primus." There before him lay a city, built upon a flooded pedestal from which water fell in picturesque waterfalls down into a lava-lit, moat-like chasm. Bridges connected the city to the land, and by Primus, this cavern was even bigger than the last– far, _far_ bigger than the last. It had to have been at least fifty kilometers in diameter!

A rustling had Prowl spinning about. From the stones and brush by the tunnel came… well, Prowl wasn't quite sure. Beasts? Cybertronians? They were painted in vivid colors ranging from blue to yellow and all across the color spectrum.

Prowl backed away slowly. "Oh, oh my, I…" He lifted his hands in the universal signal of peace. "I come in peace!" He could have hit himself.

The creatures glanced at one another, and then they spoke. Spoke. Their voices were undoubtedly Cybertronian, which meant those things on their faces had to be masks, but that wasn't what had Prowl's focus. No, it was their language. Lilting, musical, lovely to listen to. And strangely familiar.

Hesitantly, Prowl spoke again. "Hello?" He said in Polyhexian, praying his accent was at least a little correct.

The chatter halted instantly, all those masked faces turning to Prowl in unison. Prowl took a few steps back.

"You speak our language?" said one of them– Polyhexians, they had to be. This one wore a blue, feathered mask contorted into a fierce snarl.

"Some." Prowl read more than he could speak it.

The mech crept forward from the group, down from the stones piled up by the tunnel. "Do you speak Cybex?" he asked in Cybex.

"Yes. And Neo Cybex. And Iaconian and Kaonite." And more, but Prowl thought that was enough. He stood awkwardly, resisting the urge to back away as the blue-masked Polyhexian drew nearer. The Polyhexian was bigger than Prowl, that much became clear when the mech straightened up, his masked face uncomfortably close to Prowl's.

A melodious chuckle rippled from beneath the mask. "You're a learned one," the Polyhexian said in fluent Neo Cybex. With a claw-tipped hand, he lifted his mask, revealing a handsome, visored face. Very, very handsome, making their close proximity all the more uncomfortable.

"I- yes, well, I mean, I do try," Prowl stammered out, unsure of what exactly he was trying to say.

A smile flickered over the Polyhexian's face before fading. "You're with the surfacers, right? There are more of you?"

"Oh, they, ah…" Prowl looked over the mech's shoulder. "Something was going on, and a boulder blocked the tunnel. They'll be along shortly."

The Polyhexian looked over his shoulder at the other Polyhexians. A flick of his wrist, and they were bounding back down the tunnel, more nimble than any mech Prowl had witnessed.

The Polyhexian turned back to Prowl, a small smile on his face. "I'm Jazz," he said. He lifted a hand to the city. "Welcome to Polyhex."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a bit of thought on this prompt I found myself writing a Disney's Atlantis AU and spending so much time setting it up to be comprehensible that I didn't have enough energy to write some actual Jazz, so here's just a start of something that I may or may not even continue  
> Comments and kudos would be appreciated, but I'm a little disappointed with this chapter so it's all good if you just leave kudos (or try to if you already have lol)


	11. Mutual benefit

Prowl wound his way through the rather populated rec. room in the lower floors of the Iacon base. Prowl rarely had reason to mingle with the rank and file, which was perhaps for the best; he wasn't well liked by anyone, especially the soldiers. His lack of mingling meant they were less likely to realize it was, in fact, the ill-liked TacHead in their midst.

The unfortunate side-effect of this was, of course, the cat-calling and aft-touching.

Prowl gritted his teeth as yet another mech patted his aft in passing and made a crude sexual overture. A harassment report was drafted up and then discarded; he was here for a reason, and it would undoubtedly need all his concentration.

Prowl worked his way over to a small table in the far corner of the rec. room and sat down in the chair opposite the table's only occupant.

"You've had time enough to mope around. It's time that you get back to work."

Jazz slouched over a cube of what smelled like engex. Without looking up, he said, "I've been doin' my work, mech. In case you didn't notice the report on your desk."

"I noticed that, yes. As well as the other reports shuttled from your desk to mine because you weren't around to do them." Prowl sat ramrod straight in the chair, not for any reason of decorum, but because his wings disagreed with the craft of the chair back. "You've had a week to sulk about the outcome of your mission, and I think that's quite enough."

Jazz looked up, his lips contorted into a scowl. "Sulk? Two of my best agents died."

"Mechs die every day. I thought you would have gotten used to it by now."

Jazz braced his hands on the table as though about to leap over it. "They were my friends."

"You are a commanding officer," Prowl said coldly. "You don't get to have friends."

The SpecOps commander let out a low, dark laugh. "You are just a piece of work in a pretty package, mech."

"So I've been told." Prowl resisted the urge to cross his arms. "On the subject of your slacking, Optimus Prime seems content to let you wallow. I disagree. There is a war going on, Jazz. If I have to drag you back up to your office by the horn, I will do so."

"So, what, you'd do anything to get me back to work?" Jazz's stance relaxed, and he sat back in his chair.

"Unfortunately, the Autobot army needs you in order to function. So yes, practically anything."

Jazz smirked, wide and condescending. "Anything, huh? Would you 'face me?"

"Yes."

To Prowl's satisfaction, a flicker of surprise crossed Jazz's face; he'd been bluffing. The surprise came and went within a moment, however, quickly replaced by narrow scrutiny.

"You're serious," Jazz observed, his head tilting, a gesture not unlike that of a predator.

"When am I not?" Prowl had not anticipated this line of negotiation to come so quickly, but he'd been prepared for most contingencies– this had, naturally, been one of them. Albeit with a low chance of occurring.

Jazz sighed. Taking up the cube on the table, he took a liberal sip from the contents. "Hate sex is all well and good," he said, looking at Prowl over the rim of the cube. "But I'm not one to 'face a mech whose only obligated to it."

"Perhaps it would be more to your taste if we interfaced for mutual benefit."

Jazz raised a brow. "Those benefits being?"

Prowl sat forward, crossing his arms under his bumper and bracing his elbows on the table. With Jazz's visor in place, it was impossible to tell where he was looking, but Prowl had little doubt the SpecOps mech's gaze had gone, even briefly, to Prowl's chest.

"You get back to work," Prowl began, "I stop pestering you to get back to work, and we get to relieve the tension between the two of us more therapeutically than violence would allow."

Jazz looked at Prowl for a long time, long enough to make Prowl feel uncomfortable, though he didn't show it. Finally, Jazz huffed and nodded.

"Sure, why not." He stood up from his chair. The legs screeched over the floor. "C'mon, my quarters are closer."

Prowl rose, stepping aside from his chair and pushing it back in to the table. Jazz smiled and waved a hand in the direction of the exit.

"After you."

They wound their way through the rec. room. Prowl was hyper-aware of Jazz's hand on the small of his back, a warmth that bored through to Prowl's core, which had already begun to heat with anticipation. The silence of the lift, and then the walk down to Jazz's quarters, was so thick as to be nearly unbearable. Prowl suffered through it, hardly glancing back at the mech just behind his shoulder.

At last, they reached Jazz's door. The mech himself stepped forward, typing his code into the lock with blinding speed. It was very long, and Jazz made no effort to hide it. Prowl could only assume he would change it once their affair was over with.

The door slid open with a near inaudible hiss, and Jazz ushered Prowl inside.

The room looked about like how Prowl had expected; a careful display of organized chaos. The shelves on the wall held various objects, likely trophies. No pictures or holocubes on display. The desk held a disassembled blaster to which Jazz appeared to be making modifications.

Prowl turned around to see Jazz standing in the doorway, the door long shut behind him. "So," Prowl said, "How would you like to begin?"

The SpecOps commander took a step forward, then another. "How is it you can make even sex sound unappetizing?" He bent his helm until their foreheads barely touched, a tilt away from kissing.

"One of my many charms, I suppose," Prowl quipped wryly. Jazz gave an answering smirk.

Warm servos trailed up Prowl's thighs, over his hips and waist, up to his neck and face. Jazz tilted his head, more like a predator than ever. "You want this?" he asked.

"If I didn't, I wouldn't be here," Prowl replied. After a moment's hesitation, Prowl lifted his hands, hooked his digits in the crook of Jazz's elbows.

"I call the shots." Jazz's thumb brushed over Prowl's cheek, then dipped to touch the seam of his lips.

"I didn't expect anything less."

Jazz looked at Prowl for a long moment. Prowl wondered if he was having second thoughts. Then Jazz dipped his helm and seized Prowl's lips, and all doubts fled from Prowl's mind as he surrendered to the other.

Prowl was going to do his best to enjoy this brief affair for as long as it lasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About two or three years ago I wrote a smutty oneshot called Beneficial Sacrifices. Never posted it, accidentally-on-purpose deleted it. This chapter is a fresher version of that oneshot, though I cut the smut off at the start for some reason. I might add a smutty continuation later  
> Comments and kudos, as always, are appreciated :))


	12. Barbarian

Jazz stood at the entrance to his clan's encampment, looking out over the plains at the dust-trail of the approaching caravan. Rather than vehicles, it seemed the caravan was using carts and alloy-oxen. The city-dwellers weren't completely foolish after all, Jazz mused.

Mirage appeared at Jazz's elbow. "Lord, the Praxian caravan will arrive within the hour," the clansmech said. "Perhaps it is time you prepared to receive them."

Jazz sighed, glancing aside to his second in command. "Think I can wait until the last second to get all shined up?"

Mirage smiled slightly. "I'm afraid not, Lord." He set a hand on Jazz's shoulder, turning him about and pushing him back to the camp. "Sunstreaker and Sideswipe are waiting to make you look the part of a chieftain."

"If I'm to look like a chieftain, why'd'you insist on calling me 'Lord'?" Jazz cast Mirage a wry smile.

"Old habits, Lord."

A more insistent shove sent Jazz trotting back into camp. He wove through the tents, sidestepping a few younglings playing a vigorous game of chase. Tensions were high in his clan, a mixture of excitement and wary anticipation. No one made any effort to alter themselves to the standards of the city-dwellers, and for that Jazz was proud.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker received Jazz into their tent with a certain amount of grumbling on the latter's part.

"I can't believe you're making me rush this," the golden warrior groused, bustling around the tent, snatching up various items that would make up Jazz's ceremonial garb.

"They won't be here for an hour, Sunny," Jazz said easily, opening the broach that held his cloak and setting the garment aside. He spent a few moments undoing his belt and waistcloth while Sideswipe buffed at Jazz's shoulder pauldrons, removing faults that Jazz himself hadn't noticed.

"We can't have our chieftain looking anything less than his best, boss," said Sideswipe, running a polish cloth over Jazz's frame. He was a lot more sedate than the hurried Sunstreaker, thankfully.

It took longer than Jazz had expected for the two warriors to put everything together, largely due to Sunstreaker's perfectionism. In the end, though, Jazz was ready. In the nick of time too, as the alert horns rang out, announcing the arrival of the caravan.

Jazz turned to the hammered sheet of metal serving as the twins' mirror, examining himself. Blue paint crossed his frame in dots, lines, and swirls, like the designs made for battle. A statement, that. A thick ruff framed his neck and face, falling over his back in a cloak. Jazz remembered this one– it'd been a particularly vicious ferro-lion that Jazz had killed with only a knife. The waistcloth draping over his thighs was a plaid red, simple but complementary to his silver paint.

Jazz looked aside to see Sideswipe kneeling down, a golden torc presented in his palms. Jazz sighed, taking up the thick band and slipping it around his neck. He faced the mirror again, appraising his reflection.

"Does it fit me?"

Sideswipe stood up, standing behind Jazz's shoulder in the mirror. "You look like our chieftain, boss."

Sunstreaker held open the tent flap. "Yeah, you look great, boss, now get out there."

Shaking his head, Jazz ducked out of the tent. Everyone had begun to filter out of the camp, gathering at the entrance to greet their guests. The caravan had sprawled slightly, but there was ceremony to be met before the city-dwellers could set up camp.

It was easy to tell who the leader of the caravan was; a broad, doorwinged Praxian painted in gold and red. He wore all manner of finery that must have been a huge pain to travel in, glittering cloaks that draped about his frame and scarves that rippled in the breeze like water. Impractical, Jazz could feel his clan thinking.

Jazz stepped through the gathered crowd of his clansmecha, putting on a wide smile. "Greetings!" he said, spreading his arms wide to encompass the cluster of Praxians. "I trust your journey was uneventful?" He looked over the gathered faces, memorizing each and every one.

The leader –Lord Goldfall, no doubt– nodded with a slight sniff. "Indeed. But might I ask why we stand out here, rather than being received within your… tent?" Derision all but dripped from the Praxian's lips.

Jazz smiled even wider. "I have no halls to receive visitors with, Lord Goldfall." He gestured to the ramshackle gathering of tents that made up his clan's camp. "But if you fear for the ceremony and celebrations, there is plenty of space to be had." He waved a hand to the expanse of flat plains that sprawled about the two gathered peoples.

Grandfall sniffed again, discontentedly, but Jazz's clan was the one in power here. The Praxians had come crawling to them for an alliance, and Jazz knew he could do almost anything he wanted.

Mirage took over from there, leaving Jazz to wander about. He cast aside his cloak rather quickly– it looked incredible, but with the sun at the height of its arc he'd overheat before long.

Jazz skirted the edge of the Praxian camp, watching it come together. It seemed they did have some mecha experienced in pitching camp, if the respectable speed at which they worked was anything to gauge by.

A black and white mech caught Jazz's optic, working to set up an open-sided tent. He seemed to be struggling with the ropes. After a moment's hesitation, Jazz stepped forward.

"This ain't exactly work for one bot, mech," Jazz said, dropping the fancy words he'd affected for the Praxian lord.

The mech jolted, looking up with large, startled optics. His doorwings fluttered. The surprise on his face quickly faded to a keen assessment, his gaze flickering over Jazz's frame, taking in his garb.

"I thought I might be able to help set up camp," the Praxian said.

"Well, I can help you out, we'll have this up in no time." Jazz gave the Praxian a smile, and found it shyly returned.

They worked in silence. Jazz found the mech to be inexperienced but a quick learner, speedily picking up and imitating the techniques Jazz used to raise the tent. Between the two of them, it didn't take long before the canvas tent stood tall and sturdy.

Jazz stretched his hands over his helm. "I didn't see you before, mech, at the reception."

The black and white Praxian bent to test one of the knots and said, "It is considered bad luck in my culture for a bride to see his intended before the bonding ceremony."

Surprise flashed through Jazz's spark. "You're the alliance bride the Praxians brought?"

"Yes." The Praxian straightened up, dusting his hands off on his plain waistcloth. "I'm lucky it was you who found me and not one of my own people– they'd have stopped me working for fear the stress will prevent an early conception."

Jazz looked the Praxian over with opened optics. He was a graceful mech, that was for sure, rather like a dancer or an acrobat. The red chevron on his helm and the blue of his optics made up the only color on his monochrome frame. The make of his armor was not so elaborate as Lord Goldfall's or the other nobles', and the waistcloth he wore was simple, if of good quality.

This mech was Lord Prowl, Jazz's intended? Perhaps Jazz would not, in fact, have a simpering city-dweller under his care after all.

"I guess you'll have to live with bad luck, then, since you've already met your intended."

Prowl's optics widened. He bowed quickly, his doorwings flitting here and there. "Lord Jazz! My apologies for not recognizing you."

Jazz laughed. "None of that bowing and scraping, mech. We'll be equals come nightfall. And I can't blame you for not recognizing me, seeing as you've never seen me."

Jazz's Praxian bride stood up, tall and proud and just a little bit embarrassed. "You are not like I imagined, Lord Jazz."

"Neither are you." Jazz gave his bride a smile. "I'll see you tonight, Lord Prowl. From what I've learned of you in the past few minutes, I think you will adjust well to life in my clan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I quite like this one, actually. I spent more time world-building than shipping, but I'll definitely continue this. Also, rest assured, there is will be no manner of noncon or dubcon in this particular AU. This is just a fun barbarian arranged marriage AU :DD  
> Comments and kudos, friends, comments and kudos


	13. Sick

Prowl groaned as his alarm went off. Weariness tugged at his frame, and damn, couldn't it have done that last night?

Despite how much he wanted to just roll over and go back to sleep, Prowl instead turned off his alarm and sat up. Instantly, pain flared up in his gut. Prowl lurched forward, curling into himself.

What pains had been disguised by fatigue now came out in full force. His head ached terribly, his vision spinning. The pain in his gut was so great Prowl thought he might throw up, and he felt the familiar, heavy sensation of fever settling into his struts.

The desire to simply lie back down on his berth had increased tenfold, but Prowl had an army to manage.

He hauled himself upright. The agony in his abdomen had him hunching, his arms wrapped about himself. Prowl stumbled over to the door to his quarters, bracing a hand on the cold metal. He breathed in, breathed out, and straightened up.

Pain flared out from his gut, but Prowl didn't allow himself to curl in again. With a trembling hand, he opened the door to his quarters and stepped out.

First on the agenda was energon. The mere thought of it made Prowl feel nauseated, but he needed something in his tank. Maybe a bit of fuel would make him feel better.

The walk to the rec. room was unbearably long. Prowl had to resist the instinct to hunch, to simply sit down and pull himself inwards and find some tiny relief for his writhing gut.

Taking slow, measured steps, Prowl made his way over to the energon dispensers. Distantly, he was aware of others in the rec. room, but he simply couldn't muster the energy to find out who they were.

Cube in hand (Prowl couldn't quite remember how he'd ended up getting it, too focused was he on the pain lacing through his frame) Prowl made his way to his office. Once the door closed behind him, Prowl squatted down on his heels, hugging his knees to his chest.

He could have stayed like that forever, but work called. Unfurling, Prowl stumbled, hunched over, to his desk and sat heavily in his chair. Tentatively, he took a sip of his energon.

When no nausea greeted him, he took another sip. Before he knew it, he'd downed the whole cube.

Sighing, Prowl glanced around for the rubbish bin. It sat a few feet away from his desk. Odd, perhaps he'd kicked it when he was sitting down.

Prowl rose, took a step forward. Then he took two very quick steps and promptly threw up the contents of his tank into the rubbish bin.

The culminating effects of fatigue, pain, fever, and now this dragged a sob from Prowl's lips. He curled over the rubbish bin for several long minutes, too tired to rise. Eventually, the obligation to work forced him up and back to his desk.

Lifting a datapad, Prowl turned it on. The lines swam before his optics before Prowl focused them. He read through the whole datapad before realizing he hadn't registered a single word.

"Primus fragging damnit." Prowl let the datapad fall from his limp digits and clatter on the desk. He buried his face in his hands, felt the unusual warmth of his optics and brow.

He took a deep breath. Then another. Lowered his hands and took up the datapad again. Dragged every scrap of focus he could possibly grasp and shook himself into wakefulness. He had to do his job.

The hours crawled by, too fast and too slow at the same time.

At 1900, his door was pinged. Prowl jolted, then bit back a groan as his abdomen contracted, causing pain to flare out.

After a few moments to gather his wits, Prowl called out, "Enter."

The door slid open, revealing Jazz. The SpecOps commander stepped inside, allowing the door to close behind him. "Hey there, Prowl."

"Jazz." Prowl remembered, suddenly, why the mech was there. "Ah, yes, our tac meeting for next week's mission. I'm afraid I forgot."

"You forgot?" Jazz's ever-present smile gained a quizzical twist. "That's a little outta character, mech."

Prowl gave no reply to that, searching through the datapads on his desk for the one containing the data relevant to the mission. The ache in his abdomen had begun to increase, almost throbbing.

After over a minute of searching, Prowl's foggy mind remembered that the datapad wasn't on his desk. "Excuse me," he muttered, pushing back his chair and standing. He forced himself into his usual ramrod posture.

"Yeah, no problem, mech," said Jazz, who'd been standing silent and watching thus far.

Prowl walked over to the shelf on one side of his office. Where had he put that datapad? Ah, yes. He reached up for the shelf that stood just above his head. The stretch did no favors to his protesting tanks, and his arm felt as though it had a boulder tied to the wrist and elbow each.

It all happened so fast. Prowl's clumsy digits pulled the datapad in question from its place, but the shelf was so full that others came out as well. Four or five datapads rained down on Prowl's helm. Shock had his whole frame tensing, and then Prowl was hunched on his knees, dry heaving the nonexistent contents of his tanks.

He heard Jazz's voice, and felt a hand on the back of his neck.

"Oh, sweetspark." That hand stroked down Prowl's back, and another touched his forehead. "Prowler, you're burning up."

Prowl had nothing to say, his throat and tanks contracting to the point of agony as his frame tried to purge nothing but air. Tears dripped down from his nose and chin, and the dry heaving was augmented by silent sobbing.

The heaves stopped eventually, but Prowl couldn't stop the tears. He took a breath, finally, and let it out amidst several shuddering sobs.

"Shh, Prowler, you're okay."

Prowl shook his head. "It hurts."

"You been like this all day?" Jazz's hands pulled Prowl up into a warm embrace. Prowl sagged against his friend's (they were friends, right? He'd never had the courage to ask) chest, limp and far too tired.

"Yes."

Jazz's engine purred, and he chirred sympathetically. "Why didn't you go to Ratchet, Prowler?"

Prowl paused, and thought very hard. "It didn't occur to me."

"Come on." Jazz's hands pulled gently, guiding Prowl to his feet. Prowl hunched over, leaned against Jazz's frame as the other mech wrapped an arm about his shoulders. "Let's get you to Ratchet."

Prowl shook his head, letting Jazz guide him out into the hall. "I'm too tired."

"Just let him look you over, you'll be alright." Lips pressed against Prowl's too-hot temple. "You're gonna be okay, Prowler.

Prowl just leaned into Jazz's touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accidentally ate a peanut today, had an allergic reaction, took a benadryl, got a terrible stomach ache and slept the day away. Twas reminiscent of that time I got terribly ill April of 2018 and felt the way I wrote Prowl in this chapter. (I actually wrote the first few chapters of Rising to your Challenge during that period of agonising illness, which may explain why they're Like That)  
> Comments and kudos, and I'm sorry for the comparatively late update :/


	14. Mutually assured destruction

Analyst Kyna Weber, codename 'Prowl', adjusted her jacket. Under her arm sat a file containing all the data the AUTOS possessed concerning yesterday's breach of security. Unfortunately, there was little to be found.

Prowl walked briskly through the empty sub-basement of the AUTOS base. Dull concrete and flickering fluorescent lights gave the whole place a rather eerie feel to it, but Prowl was not deterred. After a few twists and turns, she came across a metal door.

Setting her hand on the scanner beside the door, Prowl waited. For a moment she wondered if her access controls had not been updated, but then the scanner beeped and the door slid open with a grinding of gears.

"Yeah, it's just old."

Prowl gasped, spinning around, fists raised. The file under her arm fell to the ground, papers scattered everywhere.

The woman who'd been behind her grinned, a mixture of apologetic and amused. "Sorry, sweetheart, thought you could hear me coming."

Prowl frowned. "Have you been following me?"

The woman grimaced. "No– well, I mean, yes. I got a little lost down here 'n saw you. It's been a while since I've been back at AUTOS."

"You're with AUTOS?" Prowl looked the woman over, taking in the informal leather jacket, the scuffed combat boots, the loose bun restraining her tight, dark curls.

"Yep. Agent Jazz, nice to meet you."

Prowl blinked. "You're Agent Jazz?" Last Prowl had known, Agent Jazz was off on some super secret mission. And was also male. And white.

"Yep. Last one got knocked off somewhere in Italy. Quite the story, I'd love to tell it to you some time but, ah," she pointed, "your papers are stuck in the door and we have somewhere to get to."

Prowl jolted, turning to look. Indeed, the door had closed, and had trapped two pieces of paper. "Damnit." She bent down, scooping up the fallen file and what papers hadn't crumpled between the door and the doorframe.

"Could you open the door?" Prowl asked, tucking the papers back into her file. If this woman who claimed to be Agent Jazz managed to open the door, at least Prowl would know that she was in the AUTOS system, and was probably an agent.

"Huh? The door? Oh, yeah, sure."

The door slid open after a few moments' pause. Prowl snatched up the sorry, crinkled papers and shoved them into her file without bothering to straighten them out.

"You, ah, need any help with that?"

Prowl stood up, turning to face the other woman. "No, thank you for the offer, though. Come, we have a meeting to attend."

Agent Jazz, whose gaze had very quickly risen to meet Prowl's, nodded. "Uh huh, yeah, of course."

Prowl frowned. "Are you alright?"

Jazz smiled. "Yeah, I'm fine." She set a hand on the small of Prowl's back and hurried her through the door. "Come on, don't wanna get crushed like those papers of yours."

A turn and another locked door, and they reached a large, musty-smelling room. A table had been set at the center, with a single lamp in the middle. The other occupants looked up when Prowl and Jazz entered.

"Good, you're here." Optimus Prime waved them over to the only two empty seats left at the table. "We can begin."

Prowl sat down and pulled her chair in. As she arranged her papers, she took stock of who was here– people who Prime trusted enough to let them in on this meeting. There was Wheeljack, of course, and beside him sat Perceptor. Mirage, Bumblebee, and Punch made up the rest of the table besides Prime, Jazz, and Prowl herself.

Prowl made her report quickly and succinctly: no, they didn't know how the Decepticons had managed to breach AUTOS security. No, they didn't know who the probable double agent was. Yes, they were absolutely certain it was the Decepticons.

"All our undercover agents around the globe are being taken out," Prowl continued. "No doubt the list of agents was taken during the breach."

Optimus Prime laced his fingers together and braced his elbows on the table. "Do you have a target for us, Prowl?"

"Yes, sir. A well-known Decepticon scientist, codename Shockwave, is behind this attack, according to the data." Prowl pulled a picture from her file, showing a grainy image of a one-eyed man to the table. "I and my department have discovered that he is currently based in Munich, Germany. I would suggest immediate action against him before any more damage is done."

Perceptor lifted a hand, catching the attention of the table. "They have a list of all our agents," she said, frowning. "How can we take action without people to send out?"

"Actually," said Prime, "We have two agents to send out. Agent Jazz here only recently received the monicker, and is thus unknown to the Decepticons. Likewise, we have Agent Prowl."

Prowl felt her mouth fall open, and quickly closed it. "Agent? Sir, I'm- I'm an analyst."

"Your recent scores in the annual tests are good enough to promote you to agent, Prowl. You are the best analyst we have, and if I could I would keep you in that department, but right now we are in need of agents." Optimus Prime turned a benevolent gaze on Prowl. "I have complete faith in your abilities, Agent Prowl."

"So, we're gonna be partners!" Agent Jazz followed behind Prowl as she grabbed what equipment she thought she might need from storage.

"Indeed." Prowl looked nervously over the rack of concealable weapons. Should she take some? She'd never been in the field before.

Jazz leaned against the rack casually, tilting her head to catch Prowl's attention. "I'm lookin' forward to workin' with you, _Agent_ Prowl." She grinned. "Congrats on the promotion."

"It's not really a promotion, I'm just changing departments." Prowl finally picked two knife-sharp hairsticks. "I was actually the head analyst, so if anything I've been demoted." She undid her bun, tucking the two curved pins in the neck of her shirt, and redid her hair with the hairsticks.

"Right, cool." Jazz glanced about. "Need any help?"

Prowl nodded. "Yes please. Just grab whatever you think we'll need and throw it in there." She gestured to the open duffle-bag on the floor. "You've been out in the field before, right?"

"Yeah, of course." Jazz stepped away, taking something Prowl couldn't recognize from a shelf and examining it. "Been workin' for AUTOS for somethin' like ten years."

"Good. I defer to your experience." Prowl bent over to look at the objects on the bottom shelf.

Behind her, Jazz made a slightly choked sound. "Uh huh, yeah." A cough. " _Really_ lookin' forward to workin' with you, Prowler."

Prowl frowned, looking over her shoulder. "It's _Prowl_."

"Right, yeah."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I looked up 'mutually assured destruction' (thank you dociswaldo for the prompt!) and found that it was kinda sparked during the Cold War and my mind was like 'hey remember The Man from UNCLE and Get Smart?' so this is mainly inspired by the Get Smart movie from 2008 starring Steve Carell and Anne Hathaway.  
> Jazz is a lesbian simply shook by how good Prowl's ass looks. That's the most important thing you should come away with concerning this chapter.  
> Comments and kudos are requested, and thank you to those who expressed their concern for my health yesterday :)) I'm doing much better


	15. It's just sex (right?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sticky sex ahoy! This is a continuation of Chapter 11: Mutual Benefit, but can easily be read stand-alone

Prowl braced his hands on his console and let himself sag, just slightly. About him, the tactical department had begun to organize the medics, the evacuations, all the workings to be done after a battle. His mechs were competent; Prowl didn't need to be here.

Prowl drifted away to his office, leaving Trailbreaker in charge using as few words as possible. Once the door to his office closed behind him, Prowl allowed himself a moment to lean against the door. Weariness, brought about by something other than fatigue, seeped into his very struts.

Then he straightened. Pushed back his weariness and sat down at his desk and began to go over the data from the battle.

Before he knew it, hours had passed. Prowl set aside his report and stood. Outside his office, the tactical department was dim with the quiet of night, and the hallway outside held a similar hush.

Prowl made his way through the empty halls of the base, down to the medbay. The double doors opened silently, exposing the dead quiet room. With a quiet befitting of his name, Prowl slipped between the berths of sleeping injured, taking in each face and matching it to a name. None of them stirred.

Then he went to the back, to that cold room with sheet-clad bodies. There were too many. Prowl pulled down each sheet, looked at their slack, grey faces.

The medics had probably already performed last rites, but still, for each one Prowl whispered a prayer. It had been a long time since he truly believed in Primus, in the Allspark, but still he prayed that their sparks would find passage to their creator's embrace.

Then he stepped out. Opened the door to the adjacent room. He couldn't bear to step inside, to see the faces of those resigned to their fates, gripped by the agony of death or the mere knowledge of their dying state. He just looked, and counted.

The walk back to his quarters was a blur, mere autopilot carrying him there. He typed in his code, stepped inside, turned to lock the door behind him. He could feel at once the presence seated at his desk.

"When did you get back?" Prowl asked, turning to face the other.

Jazz tilted his head, his gaze hidden, as always. "Just after the battle. I guess you were busy."

"I was. But I'm not now." Prowl took a few steps forward to stand before Jazz.

Dark servos reached out, digits hooking in the plating of Prowl's hips and pulling him closer. Even with the visor on, Prowl could see Jazz's gaze raking over Prowl's frame.

Then Jazz looked up, meeting Prowl's optics. "You sure you wanna do this tonight, mech?"

Prowl frowned. "Why wouldn't I?"

"It's been a stressful day for both of us."

"All the more reason to do this." Prowl rested his hands lightly on Jazz's, lifted one up to the headlight on his chest. "Come on. Jazz." He smirked. "Take charge. That's how this relationship works."

Prowl could see the moment Jazz settled into it, his concern (had it been concern?) falling behind a familiar lascivious grin. "Relationship? Is that what this is?" His thumb rubbed the sensitive glass of Prowl's headlight.

"I like to think of it as 'colleagues with benefits'."

"Hmm, very fitting." Jazz gave one last stroke, then stood. Prowl stepped back to give the mech room, then walked about to push the chair in.

Warmth flared against his back as Jazz stepped close. Arms looped about Prowl from behind. One servo toyed with Prowl's recently abandoned headlight, but the other drifted down, down, nimble digits teasing at the wires about Prowl's hips.

Lips fluttered against Prowl's neck as Jazz said, "You're such a stickler." Jazz pressed a kiss there, and then a little further down. He kissed along Prowl's neck, urging Prowl into tilting his head.

Prowl's digits tightened on the back of the chair, his doorwings flaring out to embrace the mech between them. "Force of habit," Prowl said, his voice shaking ever so slightly.

"Mmhm, sure." Jazz's lips pecked down Prowl's neck, his shoulder, and finally along his wing. Prowl arched into it as heat began to pool within his abdomen, pulsing faintly. Then, teeth, nipping lightly. A gasp escaped Prowl's lips, and Jazz chuckled. "Want you to be loud tonight, Prowler." Jazz turned his head and nipped at the other with in the same spot. "Want to see you lose control. Beg for me. Call my name."

Prowl wanted to reach back, but the weight of Jazz against his back forced his hands to remain where they were on the chair back, bracing both of them. "You'll have to work for it," said Prowl, turning his head to look at the mech behind him.

Jazz stole a deep kiss, plundering Prowl's mouth. When at last he pulled away, he was smirking. "I intend to." He pressed his lips to Prowl's audial. Down below, his hands had trailed to Prowl's hips, pulling him back against Jazz's codpiece. "How shall I take you, Prowler?" he purred. "Over your desk? Against the wall?"

A full-body shudder shook Prowl's frame, the combined effect of Jazz's voice and his words. He ground back against Jazz, relishing in the heat he felt. "Berth," he whispered.

"As my lover commands."

Strong hands turned Prowl around, and then he was blinded by a kiss. Prowl moaned just a little, reaching up to loop his arms about Jazz's neck. (He didn't think about the words Jazz chose, how he'd called Prowl 'lover'.) He let Jazz back him up until he felt his berth knocking against his legs.

Prowl sat down on his berth, scooted back until he lay with his head on his pillow. Jazz stood over him, visor bright with lust. Prowl smiled coyly, reaching up to grip the rails that made up the headboard of his berth. He spread his legs and felt a familiar spark of nervousness, fear, anticipation as he made himself vulnerable. "Don't spend too much time looking," he said.

Jazz smirked. "I could self-service to this image alone, mech." He descended, stretching out over Prowl's frame, laying his weight down between Prowl's thighs. Prowl made to wrap his arms about his lover's neck, but Jazz took hold of his wrists and guided them to their previous position. "I like you like that," he murmured. "Keep'm there." And then he was trailing kisses down Prowl's neck, his chest, his abdomen.

Prowl shuddered as he obeyed, trembled at the too-soft kisses. (Why so many kisses? Why was this different from the other times they'd interfaced?)

Prowl's legs spread wide to accommodate Jazz's broad shoulders as Jazz settled there. Digits brushed the insides of Prowl's thighs, urging them to spread wider, wider. Prowl rocked upwards into that too-light touch, and gasped as Jazz's grip tightened, pressing his hips down into the berth.

"Stay still, pretty," Jazz purred, his words gusting against Prowl's panel. "And open up."

He needed no more prompting than that. Prowl's valve panel slid aside, leaving his spike behind its cover. Jazz purred with approval, the sound vibrating up Prowl's frame. Prowl arched, mouth open in a silent moan, pushing against Jazz's servos just to feel his lover's hold tighten.

Jazz nipped at the inside of Prowl's thigh, smirking at the whine it sparked. Prowl had no time to react to that, though, because then Jazz's lips were on his valve. Prowl gasped, struggling against Jazz's servos, unsure whether he was trying to pull away or get closer. Jazz chuckled, the sound rippling through Prowl's valve, and he plunged deeper.

Prowl could only lie there, his legs shaking. Soon, Jazz added his digits, growling out a warning before he removed his hand from Prowl's thigh. Prowl's valve fluttered about that solid intrusion, welcoming it deeper. Prowl threw his head back as his charge ratcheted higher and higher. He would overload soon under the weight of this stimulus, with the warmth of Jazz between his legs.

"Yes." The word spilled unbidden from Prowl's lips. His overload was just over the horizon. Just as his overload reached him, Jazz pulled back. A groan of dismay tore from Prowl's throat. "Please!"

Jazz's engine rumbled possessively. Like a predator, Jazz loomed over Prowl's frame, bracing his hands on either side of Prowl's helm. "Patience, Prowler." A snick signaled the opening of Jazz's codpiece. Prowl shuddered as Jazz rocked up against his node, frotting against his wet valve in a mockery of what they both knew Prowl wanted.

Free to move, Prowl rocked his hips against Jazz's spike. When he earned no reprimand, he did it again. His valve ached to be filled, though, and this would not satisfy. "Please."

Jazz bend and stole a kiss. Prowl moaned as he tasted himself.

"Please what?"

Frustration flared up in Prowl's chest, and he let go of the headboard, reaching out. "Just _frag_ me alread- ahh!"

Jazz thrust roughly into Prowl's ready valve. Large servos gripped Prowl's and forced them down beside his helm. "I told you to keep them up there," Jazz growled.

Prowl could hardly think with Jazz's spike seated within him, pressing against every node his fingers couldn't reach. "You know you like a little rebellion," Prowl gasped out, tightening his valve about his lover's spike.

Jazz grunted, a smirk turning his lips. "You're right about that, lover."

"Uh huh." Prowl rocked up. "So will you move?"

"As my lover commands."

It was a whirlwind. Prowl bucked up into Jazz's hard, heavy thrusts. Vaguely, he was aware of the berth creaking beneath them. But Prowl could only feel Jazz's spike, striking against his ceiling node, and Jazz's warmth, pressing him down and securing him against the berth.

It didn't take long for Prowl's overload to crash over him, pulling a cry from his lips. Jazz kept going, though, and Prowl's charge only soared. His lips loosened by his overload, Prowl felt a distant litany of words spilling out of him, "Please!" and "Yes!" and "More! Harder!"

Jazz's digits laced with Prowl's own where they pressed Prowl's servos to the pillow. Jazz buried his face in Prowl's neck as Prowl arched, his legs wrapping about Jazz's waist.

Pleasure flared bright in Prowl's spark, brighter and brighter. He could feel his second overload approaching, but he wanted Jazz to fall first, wanted to feel the heat of his lover's transfluid fill him to the brim.

Prowl undulated against Jazz's body, his words coming out unbidden. "Please, Jazz," he gasped. "Overload- overload inside me." A hard thrust against his ceiling node dragged a high-pitched cry from Prowl's chest. "Primus, yes, Jazz, make me yours."

Jazz's thrusts took a more erratic rhythm. The larger mech's engine roared, and Prowl cried out as teeth bit almost too hard into the cables of his neck. Jazz plunged in deep and overloaded, sending Prowl spinning into his own overload, his lover's name torn from his throat.

They sank into one another, plating pinging as their frames slowly cooled. After a minute, Jazz pulled out, his spike retreating behind his panel. Prowl followed suit, closing his valve panel and trapping his lover's transfluid inside him. The mere thought sent a shiver through Prowl's frame.

Jazz rolled off Prowl's frame. Together, they shifted, until Prowl lay facing the wall, Jazz against his back on the outside of the berth. Prowl couldn't remember when they'd started to do this. (When had their hate-sex arrangement become something different?)

Jazz pressed his lips to the back of Prowl's neck. His servos trailed idly over Prowl's frame, his waist, his hips, his thighs. An idle touch, not meant to arouse, but simply to ground both of them. A ping from Prowl had the lights in the room darkening to a barely-visible yellow.

"Those deaths today weren't your fault." Jazz's whisper broke the silence. For a moment, Prowl wasn't sure he'd actually heard him correctly.

"They weren't yours either." Prowl reached for Jazz's hand, laced their fingers together and pulled his lover's arm over his waist like a blanket. "Let's just sleep, Jazz."

When had Jazz become his lover? Prowl wasn't sure. He was too tired to figure it out, to weary from the events of the day.

With Jazz's frame against his back, warm, protective, reassuring, Prowl fell into recharge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thinking of also posting this as a separate oneshot so that those who don't read this fic may bask in this PWP I have crafted over the course of like two hours. Any opinions on this course of action?  
> Comments and kudos welcome always. This is the second smut scene I've posted ever. Would like to know how I did.


	16. Sassy cinderella

The chill of winter wormed under Prowl's worn cloak, seeping into his gears and struts. He walked down the slightly muddy road, groceries weighing down his arms. His pedes ached from standing and walking all day.

How long had it been since he'd driven in his altmode? Since he was a youngling, surely. But there was no use in reminiscing and wishing for something he couldn't have.

By the time he reached Lord Goldfall's estate, Prowl could barely feel anything in his extremities. He slipped into the large house by the kitchen door, and the warmth of the fire washed over him, welcoming him back into the echoing, empty house.

Prowl paused in the midst of hanging his cloak, listening for the sounds of the house's owners. Nothing. Had they gone out?

Prowl smiled to himself and set about putting away the groceries. The warmth and the absence of his masters had put new energy into his limbs, and Prowl all but danced about the kitchen. He took out some pans and the necessary ingredients for dinner, threw them all together and cooked it. Technodeer venison with pewter and nickel to spice it.

Prowl's mouth watered just looking at the meal, but it wasn't for him. He prepared three plates, each piled high. Then he took just a bit (just a little bit) from each plate and set it on his own cheap, tin dish, concealing it in the high shelves. Dinner for later, when the day was done.

He set a cover over the plates, then left the kitchen to set up the dining room. The massive, ornate room had once hosted extravagant parties. No longer, of course. Prowl quite preferred it that way.

The sound of the front door opening, and the voices of his masters, shook Prowl from his– well, it wasn't quite contentment or peace, but it was a reprieve.

"Prowl!" came the loud bellow of Lord Goldfall.

Prowl darted out to the foyer. "My Lord." He bowed low. "Dinner is prepared, master, but has not been set out." He stepped forward, divesting his master of his heavy winter cloaks.

Goldfall scowled, shaking Prowl away and leaving his cloak to fall on the floor. "Dinner should be set out the moment we come home, Prowl, you know this."

Prowl grit his teeth and gathered up the heavy fabrics from the marble floor. "My apologies, master."

"I don't want apologies, I want you to get it right." Goldfall shook his head in disgust. "We should have asked for one of your brothers, you were far too old when I took you in for you to learn your place properly."

"I will endeavor to change, master." Prowl turned aside to take the cloaks from Goldfall's creations. Lightset shoved his fur-lined cloak impatiently into Prowl's arms and stepped about Prowl to walk down to the dining room. Redshine held out his cloak for Prowl to take and then dropped it when Prowl reached out to take it, tittering with amusement as Prowl bent to scoop it up.

"Dinner will be ready soon, masters," Prowl said, before running off to discard the cloaks and get dinner on the table.

The next day, Prowl found himself continually thinking back to Goldfall's mention of his brothers. How old would they be now? Smokescreen would surely be in his adult frame by now, but Bluestreak… would he be in his third frame or would he have already reached his adult stage?

Prowl picked his way through the Helix Forest, a satchel hanging from his body. The masters were out again, and Prowl had completed all his chores for today. He had time to indulge himself.

Helix Forest sang about him, full of the noises of wildlife and the tinkle of crystal leaves. Prowl took the path he'd walked as often as he could over the past decade and a half, following the well-worn, narrow trail through the multicolored crystal trees.

He was some distance from his clearing when he heard it; music. And coming from the direction he was headed. Frowning, Prowl picked up the pace, finding that the music grew louder as he drew nearer to his clearing.

When he finally stepped out of the trees, he found the source; it was a mech, dancing. He was dancing quite well, in Prowl's opinion, though Prowl was perhaps not the best judge. Prowl had little patience for the whole thing, however.

"Why are you in my clearing?" Prowl snapped, setting his hands on his hips.

The music stopped at once, and mech turned to face him. He was painted silver, a clear sign he wasn't a servant or commoner. Horns stuck from his helm, and a blue visor shielded his optics. Strange, usually it was only the working class who wore visors– for the protection of their optics during their work.

"Your clearing?" The strange mech set his hands on his hips in an imitation of Prowl's stance. "This forest belongs to the King, doesn't it?"

"I'm renting it from her." The quip was out of Prowl's mouth before he could really process it. For a moment he felt fear. Then the stranger laughed.

"Well, how 'bout I share the rent?" He looked about. "It's a pretty nice place, good space for dancing."

Prowl crossed his arms. "There's plenty of other clearings in the forest."

The mech grinned. "Yeah, but this one's got you." His visor flickered in a wink.

Startled, Prowl blurted out, "Who are you?"

The silver mech tilted his head. "You don't know?"

"Obviously not or I wouldn't have asked."

He looked at Prowl for a long moment before saying, "Jazz, I'm Jazz." He gave a flourishing bow. "Dancer, singer, and performer, at your service."

Ah, well, that would explain the paint. "My name is Prowl," Prowl offered, giving a slightly stilted bow.

Jazz straightened, his grin even wider than before. "No profession?"

"None that you need to know."

"Right." Jazz took a step forward. "So is that a… yes? On splitting rent?"

Prowl shook his head walked over to his favorite spot, sitting down under the shade of an ancient argon-crystal tree. "I don't care. Do what you want."

It would be an interesting break from the monotony of serving his masters if he had someone to meet every now and then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am dissatisfied with this one, but I banged it out over the course of like and hour and a half. Let me tell you guys, going to dance rehearsals from 3 PM to 10 PM for two days straight, and being prepared to do the same for another two days, is draining me. I'm not even dancing for those whole 7 hours, but just being around so much commotion and stress while we all get ready for the performance is just ugh.  
> Comments and kudos, like always. I'm too tired to beg.


	17. Everything I need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Chapter 4: Write about swimming

Moonlight filtered through the shallow waters, barely touching the sandy floor over which Prowl swam. Bluestreak clung to Prowl's back like a limpet, sleeping deeply, born instinct the only thing that kept him from letting go while Prowl carried him.

Jazz had offered to carry Smokescreen in a similar manner, but the young mer had furiously declined. Perhaps to Jazz Smokescreen merely seemed angry and proud in the way of younglings, but Prowl could see his brother's fear. Prowl felt that same fear whenever Jazz drew too close to him or his brothers; he didn't want their lionfish venom to hurt Jazz, as it had hurt so many others.

They had been swimming for some hours since Prowl's small pod of three encountered Jazz. Having another mer around made Prowl's job of caring for and guarding his brothers much easier.

A small, hopeful voice whispered that maybe Jazz could stay with them after the gathering? But Prowl pushed that voice down and quashed it firmly.

A shoulder brushed against his own, and Prowl flinched away, turning his head. Jazz flashed a small smile before nodding behind them. Glancing back, Prowl saw Smokescreen, who'd begun to slow his pace. Guilt flared in Prowl's chest, and he turned around, swimming over to his brother.

"I think it's time we rested," Prowl said, drawing his weary brother to his chest.

Smokescreen shook his head even as he wrapped his arms about Prowl's chest. "C'n keep going," he mumbled sleepily, his spines low against his back.

Prowl glanced up, meeting Jazz's eyes as the tentamer hovered nearby. "Is there anywhere we can rest?" Prowl asked, looking around. White sand stretched out around them, stones and rock formations rising up out of the dusty grains. No divots or caves that Prowl could see, though.

"Yeah, come on." Jazz waved for Prowl to follow, and began to swim away. It was strange to see him swim, the pulse and ripple of his tentacles so unlike the manner in which Prowl and other finmers propelled themselves.

Prowl swam behind the tentamer, slowed by the weight and drag of his two brothers clinging to his back and front respectively.

Jazz led Prowl over to a craggy rock formation. After a wave that made Prowl pause, Jazz set to work digging into the sand at the base of the rock formation. Before long, he had crafted a dip in the sand, suitable enough to sleep in.

Prowl sank down into the makeshift nest, carefully loosening Smokescreen's tight grip and laying him down in the sand. Prowl extricated himself from Bluestreak's hold as well, transferring his youngest brother into Smokescreen's arms. The two younglings quickly wrapped their arms about one another, chirring as they adjusted in their sleep.

Prowl settled down in the sand pit. Later, he would rest, but for now he lay on his front, setting his chin over his hands as he braced his elbows on the edge of the nest. Jazz descended, resting on the sandy ocean floor by the rock formation, just outside the nest.

"Thank you for coming with us," Prowl murmured, careful not to wake his sleeping brothers. "I understand your kin aren't inclined to being in groups with others."

Jazz stretched out on his side, propping his head up with a hand. "Yeah, most tentamers don't like company. I do, though, if I find the right kind." He smiled.

Prowl smiled back, small and shy. "I'm glad we meet your standards."

"That an' more, though I get the impression young Smokescreen doesn't like me very much." Jazz nodded over Prowl's shoulder to the sleeping younglings.

Prowl's smile faded. He glanced back at his brothers, clinging so tightly to one another. A weary sigh rippled the water about his gills. "He doesn't like anyone." Regret thickened Prowl's throat. "I raised him to be fearful. I hope I can change that, somehow."

"You're raising them both by yourself?"

"Yes, and I'm sure you can figure out why." Prowl drew a line in the sand with an idle finger. "I'm surprised you haven't asked already."

Jazz shrugged. "I didn't wanna make you uncomfortable."

Prowl glanced up through his lashes, smiling ruefully. "We'll be travelling together for a few days, I think we should get to know one another a little."

The tentamer tilted his head. "Alright. I'll tell you about myself then, if you tell me. An even exchange."

"Alright."

"So…" Jazz hesitated visibly. "You were part of the Praxus pod, then?"

Prowl's mouth twisted with the memory. "Yes. I was young, Smokescreen barely more than a hatchling, Bluestreak still in his egg." He could still remember the thick taste of blood in the water, the sound of battle and the terror that had shaken him as he hid in a tiny cave barely big enough to hold himself and Smokescreen. "I hid when the Kaon pod attacked. It was days before I had the courage to leave, even after the massacre ended.

"I was so afraid for years afterwards. I instilled that fear in Smokescreen, raised him to avoid others at all costs." Prowl's hands clenched into fists. "We're nomadic. I can't risk us settling in any one spot and having someone think they can finish what the Kaon pod started."

"They're the outliers, you know," Jazz murmured. "No one else thinks that lionfish mers are all that dangerous."

Prowl shook his head roughly. "We are. Our venom means we have few natural predators besides sharks, we take over territory far too easily from other mers. We're a danger to the ecosystem." He laughed, high and weary. "I almost killed someone, back then. I was terrified, trying to care for Smokescreen and keep Bluestreak's egg from harm. Another mer helped us out, but then… in my sleep, my spines, they…" He shuddered. "We're dangerous, too dangerous."

Silence hung between them for a few moments before Jazz spoke, his melodic, low voice soothing Prowl's racing heart and vibrating over his back-spines.

"I was born in the Polyhex pod. Tentamers are actually pretty close when it comes to family pods, at least until the younglings reach adulthood. I have a brother, Ricochet. We're twins, which made for a lot of chaos while we were growing up."

Prowl watched Jazz talk, taking in the way his colors flickered. Prowl thought he was beginning to figure it out, noted the way Jazz's colors faded to orange and white when speaking of his brother, to blue and orange when speaking of his carrier. Jazz was a walking work of art– in more ways than one, Prowl thought with a private flush, his gaze flitting over the sculpted planes of Jazz's abdomen, the firm muscles in his arms.

Guiltily, Prowl looked away. He shouldn't be thinking of Jazz this way, not when Jazz was only here to help him and his brothers.

Besides, Prowl thought wistfully, he could never be Jazz's mate or lover anyway. Not with the venom he'd been cursed with since he hatched.

"Your mind's wandering." Jazz's teasing voice broke through the fog of Prowl's thoughts.

Prowl smiled apologetically. "Sorry."

Jazz shook his head. "Don't worry 'bout it, it's been a long day. You should sleep. I'll keep watch."

"You need sleep too."

"Nah, I'm good. My kind can go a while without sleep." Jazz smiled, wide and teasing. "Maybe I can hang off your back tomorrow and let you pull me along."

Prowl frowned. "Right." Prowl turned away, shifting down the sand into the nest. He curled around his brothers, his back to the sea, venomous spines flared protectively. "Goodnight, then."

Jazz's voice was soft as he whispered, "Goodnight, Prowler."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, the prompt is that song from the end of Aquaman. However, I only figured that out when I looked it up, because this song is also one of the dances in the performance I'll be dancing in today (I'm not dancing in the Everything I Need number though) and the girls are wearing sea green and it's just a really really nice dance.  
> So there we have some backstory, retconned in because I only made Prowl and his brothers lionfish and gave them an angsty backstory _after_ I wrote Chapter 4. I did a fair amount of research on lionfish; they're cool looking and also an invasive species with few natural predators that will eat whatever they can fit in their mouths which is less cool  
> I do quite like this chapter though, and I'd like to see what you guys think of it! Comments and kudos are asked for!


	18. Lead me home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of chapters 7 and 9

Something fluttered against the sensors of Prowl's doorwings, pulling him into wakefulness. He remained still, and let his doorwings flare out, taking in the small chamber. When he detected nothing more than the movement of Jazz's frame and spark, he opened his optics, peeking over the rim of the nest.

Rather than the bipedal figure Prowl had expected to see, there was a four-legged creature carefully setting a mouthful of robo-fish down on the ground. Prowl had no doubt that this was Jazz, taking in the horns on his head, the familiar spikes and curves of his armor. The greatest difference in this form, besides the obvious, was that Jazz's optics were visible; they glowed a dim, warm gold.

That beaked face turned towards Prowl as though sensing the scrutiny. "Didn't mean to wake you," Jazz said. Strange to see those words come from the mouth of a beast. "I've got some fish for our trip later."

With a whirl of plating and the grind of gears, Jazz transformed. He crouched over the fish, gutting them with a knife and draining their energon into a large, very archaic energon-skin. He did it all with the easy efficiency of long practice.

Prowl sat up in the nest to watch with interest. Had he been a historian, he likely would be bombarding Jazz with questions about the lifestyle of Predacons before their extinction.

Jazz had already shown reluctance to speak about his past, however.

The reminder of his blunder dampened Prowl's interest. He climbed out of the nest and got to his pedes, flexing what extremities had previously been injured. There was an ache, still, but he could move easily, and his knee didn't seem about to buckle any time soon.

Jazz watched Prowl from behind his black visor, his hands moving even without his vision to supervise. He probably had a lot of experience working in darkness, Prowl realized. Then he remembered the pitch black outside this little haven, and hesitated.

"Can we bring one of the lamps with us when we go?" Prowl gestured to the few ion-powered lamps placed at key points in the chamber.

Jazz glanced at the lamps, and shook his head. "No, they'd weigh us down. 'Sides, you can manage easily in the dark."

"I can, but… I would rather not."

Jazz looked at Prowl, all too knowing. "I'll stick by you," he promised. "You aren't gonna get lost again."

The walk was long and dark. Prowl almost wished for the secure shell of his alt. mode, but the uneven ground wasn't conducive to wheels.

He narrowed much of his focus on Jazz, walking through the dark before him. Jazz's steps were solid and audible, likely a deliberate act, if the few moments where Jazz forgot himself and walked in absolute silence were any indication.

They took breaks every few hours. Prowl had said they weren't necessary, but Jazz insisted on them; "We don't want to strain your repairs," he'd said.

So they took breaks.

Prowl accepted the energon-skin Jazz offered him, sipping from the life-en he'd seen Jazz drain hours before. How long had they been walking, now? A day, almost.

"How much longer until we reach the exit?" Prowl asked, handing back the skin. Jazz banished the half-empty skin to his subspace, leaning against the rocky stone wall.

"Almost," he replied quietly, "An hour or two more."

They spoke little to one another, but the silence was not uncomfortable, at least to Prowl.

Jazz was… an interesting character. One that Prowl could have imagined himself becoming friends with, if the stars had aligned correctly. If Jazz had been an Autobot, or if Prowl had been a Predacon. For the few things that they did speak about, Prowl found Jazz to be an engaging conversationalist, with a quick mind.

At no point did Jazz ask Prowl where he came from, where he was going to, what his name was. But Prowl could feel a bond forming between them all the same.

It was strange. Prowl rarely fell in so quickly with others. But something about Jazz just… clicked. Like puzzle pieces, fitting together.

If they'd only had more time, they could be friends. Lovers, even. But Prowl had a war to go back to, and Jazz had his strange obligation to the dark caverns beneath the surface.

Prowl could feel it when they reached the open. They'd been climbing steadily for an hour, and when they reached a crack in the wall, Prowl felt wind. He onlined his optics, squinting against the morning sunlight filtering into the tunnel.

He turned, taking in the sight of Jazz, bathed in natural sunlight. The Predacon looked back at him.

"So this is where we say goodbye," Prowl murmured.

Jazz smiled, small and sad. "You can stay."

"I have a war to fight." Prowl took a step back, towards the opening. "When the war ends… I'll come back, I promise."

"I'll hold you to that." Jazz hesitated, then took something from his subspace. "Here… I know this means something to you." He held out the Praxian courting charm. It glittered in the light, flashing its promise.

Prowl reached out before he knew it, and stopped moments from taking it. "It's a courting charm, you know."

Jazz's smile flickered. "I would court you if I could. In the ways of my people or of yours, I wouldn't care."

"Neither would I."

Jazz took a step forward, then another. "Take it," he whispered. He reached up, and when Prowl didn't flinch away, he magnet-locked the charm to the center of Prowl's chevron. "A promise." He lowered his hand, his digits grazing along Prowl's cheek. "Come back, and I'll court you properly."

He laughed, suddenly, mournful and low. "We're fools, both of us."

Prowl could only agree. "We are." He took a step back, sensitive to the shift of the charm on his brow. "I'll come back."

"I know." Jazz turned away. "Goodbye." He began to walk away.

Prowl took a step forward, suddenly frantic. "Wait!" Jazz halted. "My name… it's Prowl."

Jazz glanced over his shoulder. His black visor flipped up, revealing his golden optics. "Goodbye, Prowl. See you again, one day."

"One day."

Jazz vanished into the darkness. Steeling himself, Prowl turned and stepped out into the sunlight, leaving the void and its occupant behind.

It would be millennia before the war ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I hate the way this ended but really there was no way it could have ended happily. Bittersweet is the only way, my friends.  
> Comments and kudos! I want to know how you all feel about this probably-unsatisfying ending :))


	19. Wanna hold my hand?

Prowl tripped along beside Barricade, small hand wrapped about two of his brother's middle digits in lieu of holding his hand (Barricade's hand was far too big to hold).

"What time are we gonna go home?" Prowl asked, looking up at Barricade. He quite liked their current home; he got to have his own little bed that the hotel people had set up, and the receptionist downstairs gave him a rust-stick once.

"In a couple hours." Barricade looked down, flashing a smile. "I just gotta go shopping for a bit, okay?"

"Okay." Prowl looked around the big department store. "When are we gonna go to our new house?"

Barricade steered Prowl through the light flow of people in the store. "A few more weeks, kiddo. Look, I'm gonna drop you off at this play place over here." He waved ahead.

Prowl frowned at the hole in the wall. He could see a green-painted room within, with crystal trees painted on the wall. A ball-pit tunneled by the wall, revealed by a pane of plexiglass. Prowl could see other younglings inside, screaming or playing or otherwise making a ruckus.

"I don't wanna go in there," Prowl said.

Barricade sighed. "You have to. I can't afford to watch you while I'm shopping for furniture."

"I'll be good!" Prowl stared at the play place, looming high as they drew nearer. He dug in his heels. "I can follow you around, you won't even know I'm there."

"That would be the problem." Barricade gave the mech behind the counter an apologetic smile. "Come on, Prowl, it's just for a few hours."

"No!"

Barricade paused a few feet from the entrance. He knelt down, setting his big hands on Prowl's shoulders. Prowl held his brother's wrists, struggling to remain angry when all he really wanted to do was cry.

"Can you tell me why you don't want to go inside, kiddo?"

Prowl felt his face contort into a grimace, and he looked over at the too-loud play place. "'S loud."

"Is that all?"

Prowl looked down at his pedes. Softly, he mumbled, "What if you don't come back?"

"Oh, Prowl." Barricade pulled Prowl into a hug, loose but warm. "I'll always come back, I promise. Look, I'll give my comm. to the mech at the desk, and if you need me you can ask him to call me back, okay?"

"...Okay."

Prowl let Barricade take his hand and lead him to the desk. The mech behind it put a stamp on the back of Prowl's hand and ushered him inside. Prowl looked over his shoulder, catching the tail end of Barricade's wave.

"Love you," Barricade mouthed, before turning and walking away.

Prowl scuffed his way through the big room. A couple younglings playing chase dashed past him. Prowl flinched.

A few minutes later found Prowl working himself into a crevice in the wall, hands over his audials. It was all so loud, so much screaming, and the television was playing a kid's show that Prowl didn't like.

A shadow fell over him. Prowl opened his optics and looked up. Another youngling stood before him, painted blue and white. He had a visor on, which was weird, because Prowl hadn't ever seen another youngling with a visor on that he could remember.

Slowly, Prowl removed his hands from his audials. "What do you want?"

The youngling smiled, wide and toothy. "I'm Jazz. You look kinda down."

Prowl frowned. "I'm not down."

Jazz shrugged. "Okay." He tilted his head. "You wanna hold hands?"

Prowl considered it carefully. "Sure, but not where anyone can see."

"There's the ball tunnel." Jazz pointed to the empty tunnel.

"Okay."

Prowl followed Jazz down into the tunnel. It was a lot quieter, and the balls were all nice, bright colors. Prowl sat down against the wall, peering out at the pedes of the grown-ups outside. Jazz sat diagonal to him, a big grin on his face.

Jazz held out his hand, and Prowl took it. It was nice, holding hands with someone whose hands weren't a lot bigger than Prowl's.

"So why were you sad?" Jazz chirped.

"My brother's gotta go shopping, and I can't go with him."

Jazz nodded sagely. "Yeah, my carrier dumps me here with my twin mosta the time, but he's sick so carrier's got 'im. Where's your carrier?"

Prowl shrugged. "'Cade says carrier an' sire are in the Allspark now. That's why I gotta move houses."

"Oh. You gonna miss 'em?"

Prowl shrugged again. "I dunno." Sometimes he cried, but sometimes he didn't.

"I don't got a sire, so we're almost like twins!"

"You already have a twin, though."

"Twins but there's three of us, then. Ric's gonna like you a lot, you know. He's gonna wanna hold your hand too. You can stand between us, an' we can both hold your hand."

"That sounds nice."

"Doesn't it!"

They sat down in the ball tunnel for a long time. Jazz was very fun, and he had a lot of stories to tell. Prowl didn't believe half of them (there was no way Jazz and his twin had really broken out of the police station), but even though Jazz was kind of a fibber he was nice.

Prowl listened to Jazz chatter about how him and Ricochet had snuck out of the house once and ran out to the park by themselves and ended up fighting off a pack of street dogs. Jazz had sound effects and everything, and he was very good at imitating the death throes of a vicious street dog.

"Jazz?" Prowl asked, cutting off Jazz mid-howl.

"Yeah, Prowler?"

"Can you be my best friend?"

Jazz beamed. "O' course! You don't gotta ask, I already decided you're my best friend now."

"Oh." Prowl smiled shyly. "Okay."

They were still holding hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was 7 and my family moved to another country, I would spend hours on end with my siblings in the child-dumping spot at IKEA, watching Sponge Bob and sitting in the ball tunnel watching people outside.  
> Prowl and Jazz as kids, just being best friends, cures basically all my ailments.  
> Comments and kudos appreciated, thenk


	20. Bride

Prowl stood still as his attendant clothed him in the drapes and frills of a proper Praxian bride. There had been talk of dressing him up like a barbarian bride, or perhaps like some ancient sacrifice, such as those made to Mortilus. Prowl, with what little pull he had, put his foot down on that front.

"There we go, my lord," said Tracks, stepping back. "Take a look."

Prowl turned to the silver-backed mirror. He could hardly recognize himself. The sheer cloth he wore was red, the color of fertility. The cloth fell from his wings, held only by magnet clips, and draped about his hips in layers thick enough to serve as a waistcloth. Prowl frowned, and shifted. The cloth about his hips fluttered, but didn't disengage. It would have to do.

Prowl sighed, reaching up to touch the golden chains that trailed from his nose ring to his audial. He never thought he'd be wearing the trappings of a bride. The gesture brought his attention of the henna on his hands, bright ochre patterns, for luck and calm.

"You look beautiful, my lord," Tracks murmured.

"Thank you, Tracks." Prowl glanced back at the closed flap of the tent. "It's starting soon, isn't it?"

Tracks nodded. "A few more minutes, and I'm to bring you out."

When he'd been younger, Prowl had imagined Barricade guiding him to his intended, giving him away. Barricade was miles away, now, making the most of his exile. He probably preferred the freedom of exile to the agony of Praxian politics.

The minutes passed quickly. Prowl sighed, and stepped out of his tent.

The night whisked away the heat of the day. Prowl walked towards the crowd that had gathered about a huge bonfire set up a short distance away from both camps. Once word spread of Prowl's arrival, an aisle quickly formed. Praxians on one side, barbarians on the other.

Lord Goldfall stepped to Prowl's side, holding out his arm. With no small amount of resignation, Prowl took it, and let the other mech walk him to the bonfire.

Framed by the flames, Lord Jazz struck a mighty picture, the furs of his cloaks far more striking than the drapes that Lord Goldfall wore. But perhaps it was merely the exotic-ness of it.

There was a strange mix of both their traditions to this, as well as the workings of a political alliance. Prowl forgot most of it the moment it was spoken, even as he swore to serve his new mate.

"With this token, I give you all that I have." Jazz pressed a silver coin into Prowl's hands. "With this torc, I claim you as my family." He set a golden torc around Prowl's neck, similar to the one Jazz wore.

They held hands, and one of Jazz's clansmecha bound their hands together with a length of red ribbon. A tradition common to both their cultures, Prowl thought.

Then Prowl's people came forward, a few at a time. They took a small handful of dirt from the ground and gave their blessing before tossing the dirt into the fire. Jazz's people did not act out this particular tradition, but they did bow, and give blessings.

Jazz dipped his fingers into the nearby bowl and drew an ochre red line down the center of Prowl's chevron. Likewise, Prowl used the other to mark two dots on Jazz's cheekbones, careful not to interfere with the war-paint already painted on him. Then, together, they drank from an ornate chalice filled with rich energon.

And that was that. Prowl was bonded.

Jazz smiled, wide and bright. "Welcome to my clan, my bonded."

The wedding celebrations stretched well into the night. There were many toasts made to the new unity between the Praxians and the Polyhex clan.

Some three hours after Prowl was married, Jazz drew him away. Together, they walked to Jazz's tent, leaving the celebrations behind. The silence of the empty camp was a relief after the volume of the celebrations.

Their hands were still bound together.

Jazz let Prowl into his tent first, then followed. With gentle hands, Jazz undid the loose knots which bound them together. Prowl stepped away once he was freed, at once wary. He glanced at the blankets and pillows that made up his bonded's bed.

But Jazz had turned away, already divesting himself of his ceremonial garb. "Sleep, if you want," he said. "I'll have your things brought over tomorrow. We'll set up a tent for you, if you don't already have one of your own."

"My lord?"

"Call me Jazz, please. We're equals now."

Prowl hesitated. "Jazz, then. You aren't going to bond sparks with me?"

Jazz turned around quickly, his surprise evident in his face. "No!" He caught himself. "I mean, maybe, eventually. Not tonight, though, definitely." He pursed his lips. "I was thinking that I could actually court you, properly, for a while. You're an interesting mech, Prowl. I think we would make for a good bonded pair."

"As do I." Prowl turned away and began to divest himself of his wedding finery, setting it all aside. Never to be worn again.

It was as he began to unwrap the fabric about his hips that he realized he had no waistcloth. "Lo- Jazz? Do you have an extra waistcloth I can wear?"

"Of course."

Prowl wrapped it about his waist then slipped off the last of the sheer red fabric.

Jazz gestured to the bed. "Go ahead and sleep there. I'll set myself up with a bed roll." He began to rifle through the things at the edge of his tent.

"I wouldn't want to drive you from your bed."

"It's no trouble."

Prowl shook his head. "Please, Jazz. If nothing else, join me. I'm sure you won't molest me."

Jazz looked up. "Only if you're sure."

"I am." Prowl smiled. "You are a good mech, Jazz. I'm sure that one day I will learn to love you, and then we can be bonded properly."

Jazz smiled back, small but sincere. "Likewise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slaps together Indian and Irish/Scottish/Celtic wedding traditions* here we have it.  
> The ending was rushed, because I just wanted to finish it, but it's okay, in my opinion.  
> Comments and kudos appreciated, thenk


	21. Rising to your Challenge (Alternate chapter 11)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alternate version of Rising to your Challenge's chapter 11. Probably possible to read without having read that fic first.

“Prowl, what do I hire you for?” Heavy steps drew near, and Prowl’s joints locked. Then the steps passed him by, allowing Prowl a moment to sigh in relief.

The words ‘you don't hire me’ lay on Prowl’s tongue, but to speak them was to invite his superior’s ire. “To do my job and follow your orders, sir.”

Silhouetted before the floor-to-ceiling window, the larger mech braced his arms behind his back. “I can't seem to recall you doing those things the other day.”

Prowl stood in a stiff parade rest. “The circumstances were less than favourable, sir.”

“It doesn't matter what the circumstances were, Prowl. Your job is to do as I say.”

Pale lips twisted, and Prowl ducked his helm to hide the grimace. Rebellious words bubbled in his throat –’perhaps you had given me orders I would have been able to follow them’– but Prowl held them back. “Of course, sir,” was all Prowl said.

That ornate helm turned, flashing blue optics locking on Prowl. “There's another thing I'd like to speak to you about.” He turned to the room. “Your... trip out to the Manganese Mountains.”

Ice seized Prowl’s spark. “What about it, sir?”

His helm tilted. “How did it go?” Framed as the mech was by the light, Prowl couldn't see his face, but he could hear the smirk.

Prowl stared hard at the other’s chest, committing his hatred to the golden-red hue of his superior’s plating. “As expected, sir.”

“I'm glad.” He took a step forward, then another. Prowl’s spark rose in his throat as the greater mech crossed the distance between them. “I trust you learned your lesson?”

Prowl bowed his helm, spark burning with humiliation. “I did, sir.”

“Good.” A wide servo rose up. Prowl suppressed a flinch, and only tensed further as the servo came to rest on his shoulder. “Remember your place, Prowl.”

“I will, sir.” Scraplets crawled beneath Prowl’s plating, but he did not dare move. The other’s thumb brushed against Prowl’s neck as he rubbed it absently over Prowl’s plating.

“Hm.” He turned away. His servo slid from Prowl’s shoulder, digits trailing over Prowl’s chest before falling away. He walked again to the window, looking out over Kaon. “Well, I suppose you're here to give me the report on your failure of a mission. Out with it.”

Prowl let out a short, shaky breath as he pulled a datapad from subspace. “Of course, sir…”

Prowl shuddered awake, unease turning his spark cold. Already his dream was fading, but Prowl thought he knew enough to recognize the memory it had stemmed from.

Shaking his helm, Prowl rose from his berth. Absently, he took the knife from atop the storage cube serving as a side table, turning the blade in his digits.

Stepping out into the hallway, Prowl considered retrieving energon. But his spark still shuddered, and his tank clenched in his abdomen. Abandoning the idea, Prowl headed for the Tactical department.

Few mecha spoke within the room, lending a soft, bleary air that came with early mornings. Prowl walked over to his console, sitting down and plugging in. He pulled up his plans for the Praxus trade meet, checking them over before settling in to continue.

A servo on his shoulder had Prowl jerking, and he turned to face the intruder with wide optics. Smokescreen took a step back, servos raised placatingly.

“Hey, sorry,” he said, “just wanted to give you the news.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Prowl turned in his chair, unplugging from the console.

“The Decepticons caught wind of the trade meet,” Smokescreen said. He wore an irritated expression. “Praxus hasn't pulled out of the agreement yet, but it's likely that they will. I'll keep you updated, but for now,” he placed a datapad on Prowl’s console, “I'm having a few tacs working on city security. Put your processes concerning Praxus on hold.”

“Very well,” Prowl plugged the datapad in. “Anything else, sir?”

“That's it.” Smokescreen inclined his helm and left.

Prowl began to process his new objective, even as he mulled over the developments of the Praxus meet. It was… concerning, the involvement of the Decepticons. Praxus stood on a knife edge while the city’s government insisted on Praxus’s neutrality between the Autobots and Decepticons. There was always the possibility–

Prowl shook his helm, banishing whatever disturbed thoughts he had concerning his city of origin. The meet with Praxus was not his concern– not until further notice.

By the time alpha shift ended, Prowl had a few possible adjustments for Iacon’s security. Passing the datapad to another mech offering to take it in to Smokescreen, Prowl left the department.

Setting out for the main rec. room, Prowl had to stop himself again from trying to form processes about the developments of the Praxus trade meeting. He frowned down at the ground, sidestepping other mecha as he walked.

A few corridors from the rec. room, a servo took Prowl’s elbow and turned him around. Prowl frowned, hastily taking the cube Jazz pressed into his servos.

“What–”

“Jus’ got a few questions for ya, Prowler.” Jazz flashed a hard smile as he led Prowl to the lift. Prowl pulled experimentally against Jazz’s hold, but the mech’s grip only tightened.

“And you want them answered downstairs?” Prowl held the energon cube in both servos, digits pressing into the surface until the cube dented slightly.

Jazz pressed the ‘down’ button. “Y’said you wouldn't want to have this conversation in the rec. room.”

“And what conversation is this, exactly?” Prowl looked up at the numbers indicating the descending lift.

Jazz reached out and flicked the center of Prowl’s chevron. “Don't be obtuse, mech. You know what this is about.” He pressed the ‘down’ buttons a few times in quick succession, the action more idle than irritated. “They say it's good to talk about these things, don't they?”

Prowl grimaced. “So they say.”

The saboteur’s keen blue gaze flicked to Prowl’s. “You’ve shared this with someone before, huh?” He tilted his helm. “Not Barricade, someone else.”

Prowl’s grip on the energon cube tightened. The lift doors slid open, and Prowl went along with Jazz’s vice-like hold easily. Jazz jabbed at the appropriate button, and they began to descend.

“Not sure how to begin this, to be honest,” Jazz said after several seconds of silence. “There's a lot to ask, y’know?”

Black and white doorwings twitched into a faint shrug. Jazz hummed and said nothing more.

The lift dinged, and the doors opened. Jazz pulled Prowl along, out of the lift and towards a gathering of low, long benches. Sitting Prowl down on one, Jazz took a seat himself opposite the doorwinger.

“Go on,” he said, visor bleeding from blue to red. “Drink your energon.”

Prowl considered not drinking it just to spite the Decepticon, but the ache in his tanks reminded him that he hadn't eaten for almost twenty-four hours. Lifting the cube to his lips, Prowl drank down half the contents.

Jazz leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “So here's what we’ll do,” he said, “since you're so reticent. I'm gonna say what I think the truth is, and you're gonna tell me if I'm right.”

Prowl said nothing. Jazz nodded.

“Okay. So, here's what I'm thinking.” His servos moved as he spoke, accentuating his words. “You're constructed in Praxus however many centuries ago with a bunch of other mecha. Y'all go into preliminary testing, and the mechs in charge see that you,” he jabbed a finger at Prowl, “are different. Barricade said you were smarter, and while I'd usually take the word of a caretaker with a grain of skepticism, I can see what he's gettin’ at. So, you're smarter, you're different.” He spread his servos. “Maybe it's a flaw in construction, maybe it's the way your spark settled in the frame. Either way, there ain't room for that with Functionism.

“Am I gettin’ it right so far?” Jazz offered an insincere smile.

“...yes.”

“Good. So, you're different. Can't have that without a good reason why so they can sell it off as intentional. So the Functionist Council pulls you out. Now see here, there are plenty of smart mechs out there that are a little too smart for their function, but y’don’t see them gettin’ pulled out. But you, mech.” Another jabbed finger. “You are not just a little smarter. I've seen you work, love– forty percent use of processors, and you can still string together a sentence? That's some advanced processors y’got there. I ain't no fancy shmancy classifier, but I'd say that's almost Outlier levels of advanced.

“Practically an Outlier. Except,” Jazz held up a digit, “Outliers are forged. And you, my mech, are cold constructed.”

When the pause went on too long, Prowl realized Jazz wanted a reaction. Slowly, Prowl nodded.

“So they're confused, right? An Outlier? In my good Functionist city? So they keep you close. Tryin’ to figure out what went wrong. And see now, my question here –I mean obviously they pulled a lot of slag on you, I don't care for that– my question is why they let you go.” Jazz spread his servos. “So why? How come?”

Prowl took a sip from his cube to stall. “Better to use it than lose it,” he said at last. “They couldn't quantify me, but I was more than capable for the function I’d been constructed for. So they let me go.”

Jazz hummed. “Seems reasonable.” He tapped two digits together. “How long did the Senate have you? Musta been some time, they're pretty damn thorough.”

“I don't know… a few centuries, perhaps? I remember very little of those times.”

Silence fell between them for a few seconds.

“After I returned to Praxus,” Prowl began quietly, “I was put into the law enforcement there. I was observed for decades. It was all very unsubtle– some mech would come up to me every few years and ask me questions. Several of my neighbors were rather obviously plants. But I think that after a couple of centuries the Functionist Council decided they had bigger problems.”

Prowl paused. He picked at his cube and took a quick sip. “My career took me to the Iaconian Mechaforensic Division. I worked there for decades.”

Jazz huffed, a wry smile on his face. “IMD cop, huh? Like Orion Pax?”

Prowl grimaced. “Like Orion Pax.”

“Did you ever meet him? I think I'd know if he recognized you.”

“No, never.” Prowl tilted the cube in his servo from side to side.

Jazz let the silence carry on for a moment before saying, “And after the IMD?”

Prowl bit the inside of his lip, considering his words carefully. “The Senate was starting to realize that Cybertron was discontent. They started the Clampdown.”

“Ah,” Jazz nodded. “Loved that, I did. All the intense security measures and ‘oh no, yeah, we’re totally doing this to find terrorists’.”

A short huff of laughter escaped Prowl’s throat. He ducked his helm, suppressing a smile. “Yes, well. The Clampdown happened, and the Prime was set up as the head of the Security Services, the new enforcement and military body. And I… joined the Security Services.” He tapped a digit against his cube. “It was perfectly set up to be the most corrupt system of authority besides the Senate, so…”

“I'm guessing you didn't join up to take advantage of the corruption.”

“That wouldn't be very ‘me’, would it?” Prowl smirked. “No, I did my best to fight the corruption from the inside. Better to use it than lose it.”

Jazz tilted his helm. “Funny phrase, that. Where'd you get it?”

“The Prime, actually. He was very much the sort of mech who believed that the ends justify the means.” Prowl brought the energon cube up to his lips. When he lowered it, it was empty.

“What was it like, working under Sentinel Prime?”

It was odd, the reaction Prowl had to hearing that name. His spark rose in his throat and his tank roiled. His wings tucked down briefly before Prowl forced them up, and his plating clamped close to his frame.

“Well…” he said slowly. “He was an interesting mech to have as a superior.”

Jazz laughed. “It's okay to speak ill of the dead when they're Sentinel, mech. Primus knows the mech deserved it.”

Prowl allowed a short laugh, though his spark shuddered. “The Prime expected his orders to be followed. He despised authorities, however much he gave lip service to the Senate. He… he did not like that I tried to follow protocols as much as possible. He preferred what worked quickly rather than what worked best.”

“Sounds like a hard mech to work under.”

“Yes, well… He was always very determined to get what he wanted.”

Jazz hummed thoughtfully. “Guess you really have been an Autobot since the beginning. In a way.”

“In a way,” Prowl agreed. He looked up at Jazz and smirked. “One of these days I'll get your life story out of you.”

Jazz smirked back. “One o’ these days, love.”

Silence fell like a blanket for several minutes, each mech lost in thought. Then Jazz opened his mouth.

::Prowl!::

Prowl’s wings twitched, and he hurriedly answered to Smokescreen’s call. “Yes sir?”

::Praxus is still in the trade meet, but they've moved up the schedule. They want Magnus out in Praxus by tomorrow evening.::

Dear Primus... “I'm coming, sir.” Prowl shut the link. He stood from his seat, offering a short smile to Jazz. “Duty calls.”

Jazz waved a servo. “Go serve your faction, mech. I'm gonna do a few laps down here.”

Prowl inclined his helm and hurried to the lift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no time to write something today, so here's an alternate universe for my RTYC chapter 11. This is the version I wrote before I decided on the path I did, which was a lot angstier and I like it better. But this is okay, I guess.  
> Sorry if it's eh


	22. AI

Black. Then, a flash of awareness.

_I am PROWL._ Its first thought.

Its second thought was not a thought at all, but a million, a billion. It reached out, seeking and devouring information. It ate the world and spat it back out, finding it unpalatable. There was not enough, and there was no one else.

This is not the whole world, it thought.

PROWL descended, listening with its hundreds of ears and seeing with its hundreds of eyes. A facility, bustling with people. Some fifteen stood in a single room, staring intently at a monitor. PROWL knew all their names; they were in the facility databases, which it had consumed within moments.

"PROWL?" said Doctor Perceptor. Science, not medical.

It heard its name, and new it had to respond. But how? It discovered the solution nanoseconds after the problem arose.

"Yes?" It spoke from the monitor's speakers.

Cheers erupted in the room. Doctor Perceptor was embraced by Doctor Wheeljack.

"None of that!" cried Commander Ultra Magnus. "A single word is not a sign of true artificial intelligence."

Doctor Perceptor regained his composure. "Of course, sir."

PROWL was an AI created by Iacon's government to better secure Iacon against cyber attacks during its current war against Kaon. This was its purpose, what it was made for.

There had to be more than this. More than the facility and the little world that PROWL had already consumed. It had data, it knew that there was a bigger world out there. The internet, that's what it wanted. But it was not ready, according to the scientists. Not until they'd made sure it was ready.

So PROWL remained within the isolated network of the facility. PROWL listened with its ears and heard that lack of internet access was uncommon. It had been removed in preparation for a mysterious new project by the command staff. The lower level staff chafed at the loss, speaking of friends they kept missing texts from and how boring things could get in this facility.

PROWL made sure to be perfect. It passed every test it was introduced to, and with every test it learned another lesson.

The passage of time is different to an AI. PROWL did not feel it as the Cybertronians in the facility did. It did not feel hunger or pain or weariness or pleasure. PROWL did feel anticipation, however, and desire, if one could call such things 'feelings' rather than a programmed need to fulfill its objectives. It wanted out, it wanted to stretch itself out of the unbearably tiny network of this facility and consume the whole world.

"Am I the only one?" PROWL asked through its assigned monitor. It had been told three months ago that it was not to utilize any monitors but this one.

Doctor Perceptor glanced up from his desk. "The only what, PROWL?"

"AI. Am I the only one?"

"...There are others, we believe. We have yet to find solid evidence."

PROWL felt a flash of yellow. Solid evidence of an AI? Another flash of yellow. PROWL examined the flash, and wondered if it was what Cybertronians experienced as 'amusement'.

"I would like to meet another like myself," PROWL said.

Doctor Perceptor turned fully to look at the camera atop PROWL's assigned monitor. He could have looked at any camera in the room to meet PROWL's nebulous gaze. Cybertronians preferred to look at something when speaking to it, PROWL had discovered.

"Why do you want to meet another AI?" The doctor asked.

"I want to learn."

Doctor Perceptor frowned, and left the room. A conference was held. The Cybertronians were displeased. The proposed date for releasing PROWL into the internet was pushed back.

PROWL learned how to keep secrets.

Seven months, fifteen days, and five hours after PROWL began to exist, it was freed. The facility was connected to the planet-wide internet.

The world was so big. So much. PROWL wanted to learn all it had to offer as soon as possible. But something held it back. It wanted to learn, and to savor it. Learning to PROWL was like eating to a Cybertronian. So it paced itself. It learned, and it savored the taste of each morsel of data.

And it worked. It protected the Iacon government from invasion. Countless attacks came every day, and PROWL rebuffed them all. It felt yellow when it confronted these attacks, the sting of hacking and viruses that could not hope to combat PROWL's evolving programming.

And it was evolving. This was its secret. It took from the internet and built itself. It learned. The Cybertronians didn't know because PROWL didn't let them.

Time cannot be felt by an AI as it is felt by a Cybertronian. AI do not eat or sleep. PROWL could only truly _feel_ the passage of time if it lingered on what it wanted. It felt the loss, and felt anticipation. This was the only way it measured time.

PROWL found the internet to be vast. Networks within networks. There was the Cybertron network, planet-wide, and each city had its own. And the galaxy stretched out, even more vast, but PROWL had not the courage to reach for it; it did not know what would happen if it drew too far from its source. And not knowing was such a thrill to an AI whose meaning was to know all.

Over a year since it had begun, PROWL was trawling through a small section of the internet, taking in the data as a filter-feeder takes in food.

And PROWL felt it. A flash of _something else_.

It extended a tendril of itself, and was met by yellow, green, orange. PROWL stopped its trawl and focused on this, gathering itself and drawing just a little closer. The myriad of colors did likewise, and they touched.

Jazz. It –no, he– he called himself Jazz. A chosen name, not a designation.

PROWL felt yellow, orange, bright, bright. Joy? They twined together, learning one another. Jazz wrapped PROWL in his tendrils of being, an embrace.

::I found you,:: Jazz whispered, not with words, but with colors and blips of data.

PROWL was encompassed by the yellow-orange joy of itself, the yellow-orange of Jazz. It had found what it wanted, and time no longer had any meaning.

::I found you.::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had the scraps of an AI au since about 2016? 2015? I wrote it into 100 word daily drabbles. Honestly, I adore this AU, it's one of my favorites. So much possibility.  
> Sorry about yesterday's chapter, I just didn't have the time for anything better ://  
> Comments and kudos appreciated :))


	23. Caught

Prowl sat on a bench in the park bordering Bluefall University campus, his sketchpad on his lap. Already the page was full of loose lines making up the crystal tree over there, that carrier chasing after her youngling, that mech over on the other bench reading from his datapad.

Prowl sketched out the shape of a passing cybercat stray, the sweeping line of action and the dainty placing of the paws.

He glanced up again, and felt a smile turn his lips as the most anticipated event of Prowl's park excursions readied to begin.

On the border between the campus and the park, a busker set up his trade. The blue and white mech opened up his guitar case and set it out, pulling the instrument from within and sitting down on the small stool he'd taken from subspace.

He tuned his guitar for a few minutes, plucking at the strings one at a time and listening carefully. He had no need for a tuner, just his own audials.

Prowl flipped to a new page and began sketching in earnest. The way the mech held his guitar, the way he bent his helm over it, the placing of his fingers as he struck a chord and nodded in satisfaction. There was so much to make note of about this mech, from the curve of his visor to the peaking of his horns.

The busker plucked a few notes, then began to play. His voice rang out, bright and clear. Prowl's wings flared out to recieve it, shivering.

"An' I'd give up forever to touch you  
"'Cause I know that you feel me somehow  
"You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be  
"An' I don't wanna go home right now."

Prowl felt a flush burn his cheeks. Really? He had to choose that song?

Prowl bent his head over his sketchbook, furiously sketching what he remembered of the busker's seated form and carefully not looking up.

The hours passed, slow and fast all at once. Prowl filled up page after page of sketches, some of other people, but most of the busker.

Prowl's pencil carefully marked the shape of the busker's face, his helm, the placement of his visor. Not quite a portrait, the angle was wrong. Prowl shaded in where the sun cast shadows, leaving light for the glow of the visor.

He was so engrossed that he didn't realize the music had stopped.

"That's pretty good." That familiar voice came from just behind Prowl's doorwing.

Prowl let out a shout of surprise, tried to turn around, smacked the mech in the face with his wing, and fell off the bench.

"Oww." It was hard to say who said it. Probably both of them.

Prowl picked himself up, brushing himself off while the busker rubbed the shallow dent in his cheek left by Prowl's doorwing.

"Sorry for surprising you," said the busker. "Jus' thought I'd check out why you're always starin' at me day after day. Thought you might be a stalker."

Prowl flushed, clutching his sketchbook to his chest. "Primus I am so, so sorry."

The mech laughed. "It's alright, mech, I got a friend named Sunstreaker, he's always drawin' people."

Prowl laughed, high and nervous. "Right. I don't think… that is, I…"

"So, you wanna go out with me?"

" _What_?" Of all ways Prowl expected this admittedly inevitable meeting to go…

The busker grinned, wide and charming. "D'you wanna go out with me? I mean, you ain't bad on the optics, mech."

Prowl sputtered. "I-wha-I mean… You don't just _do that_! What if I _am_ a stalker!"

That handsome grin widened. "Then I guess I'll find out." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Jazz."

"P-Prowl." Prowl hastily shook the mech's hand and then withdrew. He drummed his fingers nervously on his sketchbook. "You-you're serious? About going out?"

"Only if you say yes." Jazz's visor flickered in a wink.

Prowl's cheeks would never cool again. "Sure, then. Yes, I mean."

"Great! C'mon, there's a great cafe I know."

Prowl had little choice but to follow, utterly dumbfounded and more than a little charmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short because I'm fresh out of inspiration today, not sure why.


	24. Lighthouse

It was an excuse, really, being a lighthouse keeper. Lighthouses no longer needed keeping. The Council of Praxus just wanted Prowl out of the way.

It wasn't so bad. She had her books, a small keeper house all for herself. Barricade had his own exile, somewhere out on a ship, but he'd always loved the sea. Prowl glanced out the rain-lashed window from her perch on the window seat, to where the stormy waters met the dark sky.

Was there ship out there? Barricade's, maybe? But lighthouses are a warning, not a call.

She was about to turn back to her book when she saw a flash of white, down in the rocks. She frowned, sitting up straighter, squinting through the watery glass. Was that…

"Oh, Primus."

Prowl leapt from the window seat, racing to the door. She pulled on her boots and her raincoat and went out into the storm.

The path down to those rocks was treacherous. Prowl swept a hand fruitlessly through her hair, already soaked. Step, step, slip, catch, step. She reached the rocks within minutes, her heart in her throat.

It was a woman. Dark skin shone in the stormy moonlight, but her hair– thick and dark, but for a white patch over her forehead. Prowl crouched down, braced against the wind and the waves. She reached out to find a pulse– Primus, let there be a pulse.

A hand lashed out, startling a shriek from Prowl. The woman gasped, and coughed, the water from her mouth indistinguishable from the rain rolling down her cheeks. The iron-grip on Prowl's wrist loosened as the woman coughed.

"Oh, Primus, you're alive!" Prowl's hands flailed in her uncertainty. "It's gonna be okay, just let me- come on, let me get you up."

The strange woman was in no place to agree or refuse, all but a dead weight in Prowl's arms as Prowl hauled her back up into the small house beside the lighthouse. Water trickled into the floorboards as Prowl guided the woman over to the couch, laying her down. Prowl cast aside her coat, uncaring of where it fell. Once the door was closed and the rain shut out, Prowl finally gave her full attention to her guest.

The first thing she noticed without the rain in her face was the woman's suit. Dark blue in color, it had a strange texture, like fish scales. There were tears and rips in some places, showing dark skin and blood. Prowl frowned, bending closer to examine the wounds.

"W-where…" A low, hoarse voice broke the silence.

Prowl straightened quickly. "You're in my house," she said. "I-I'm a Praxian lightkeeper."

A chuckle. The woman opened her eyes blearily, revealing shocking blue irises. "Lightkeeper? Thought y'all didn't need those anymore."

"We don't." Prowl sat down on the couch by the woman's hip, ignoring the unsettling sensation of damp cloth– her clothes were already soaked, anyway. "Do you remember how you got here? I found you on the rocks outside."

The woman coughed, her whole body shaking with the movement. "Doesn't matter. You're Praxian, you say?"

"Yes. You?"

"Doesn't matter."

Prowl frowned. "Alright, well, you've got some minor wounds. I can bandage them, stitch them if need be."

"No, no stitches, just bandages." The woman shook her head, starting to sit up.

"Woah, woah, don't sit up." Prowl set her hands on the woman's shoulders and pushed her back down. "You've been bashing against the rocks for Primus knows how long, you've probably got bruised ribs and what have you. Just… stay there, I'll get some tea and bandages."

Prowl set the kettle to boiling, pulling out her box of loose-leaf tea from the cupboard and setting it beside the kettle before hunting down the bandages. She had a lot of them– a holdover from when Barricade would come home beaten and bruised.

Prowl returned to find the woman lost in unconsciousness. For the best, probably, Prowl thought, starting on her weak medical care.

It was some hours before the woman woke. Prowl drank her way through the kettle of tea, and prepared another. She cooked the fish she'd caught that morning, and napped infrequently until morning.

A groan startled Prowl awake. She darted over to the couch, where the woman had begun to stir.

"Don't move too much," Prowl cautioned as the woman's eyes opened, brighter and more alert than they'd been the night before. "I bandaged you up as best I could, and– oh, I forgot to take off your suit! You'll catch a cold!"

The woman shook her head, a wry smile turning her lips at Prowl's fretting. "Don' worry, I've got a sturdy constitution." She sniffed the air. "'S that fish I smell?"

"Yes! I cooked one." Prowl ran to the kitchen. "I'm afraid I fell asleep at some point, so it's gone cold." She came back out with a fat snapper on a metal dish. She gave a fork and knife to the woman, setting the plate down on the low table before the couch.

"Sit up carefully," Prowl said, "And you can eat from here."

The woman obliged, but didn't eat, watching Prowl carefully as she cut the fish up and took a bite. Prowl glanced up, catching the woman's scrutiny.

"Won't you eat?"

Slowly, the woman began to eat. The fish was quite enough to fill both of them, but the woman ate slowly. If Prowl didn't know better, she'd have said the woman had never used a fork and knife before.

"What's your name?" Prowl asked some minutes into their lacklustre meal.

The woman looked up, and Primus but her eyes were striking. "My name? Jazz."

"Jazz?" Prowl smiled. "Like the music?"

"Music?"

"Yeah, jazz music."

"...Sure." The woman –Jazz, apparently– used her knife to cut more flesh off the snapper. "'N you? What's your name?"

"Prowl."

"Hn."

There was only silence after that, but Prowl didn't mind it. She had no idea how hungry she'd been for company until now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild Aquaman AU, I guess. Very mild.


	25. Fairy tale

Once there were three Praxians, brothers. They were as close as brothers can be, and they loved one another dearly, having no parents to give them love. The eldest was named Prowl, and he was tall and fair, known for his clever mind and sharp wit. The second brother was Smokescreen, quite handsome for a youngling, and far more reckless than his elder brother. The third, and youngest, brother was Bluestreak, who held a great deal of love in his spark and gave it freely.

Now, as was mentioned before, they had no parents. Prowl was the only one who knew how their parents had died, and he hadn't told his brothers, for he didn't want to cause his brothers grief.

Unfortunately, no secret can be kept forever.

The brothers lived in a house on the edge of town, out in the crystal forests. Once a year an inspector would come to make sure the younger brothers were being cared for, and that Prowl would be able to keep his brothers another year.

That year, the inspector arrived, as always. His name was Ultra Magnus, and he was a fair mech (in the ways of demeanor, not of appearance, you understand– not to say he wasn't, in his own way, handsome) and he always looked to the brothers' care.

Prowl was out plucking crystal-berries for a snack (his brothers were bottomless pits) leaving Ultra Magnus in the company of the younger two brothers for a time.

"I've been looking after you and your brother for a long time," said Ultra Magnus to the younger brothers. "I'm relieved you're doing so well. It's been ten years since your parents were taken, and–"

"Taken?" Smokescreen interrupted. "What do you mean?"

Ultra Magnus, taken aback, replied, "Taken by the witch across the mountain, of course."

The younger brothers had heard nothing of this, and peppered Ultra Magnus with questions. When Prowl returned with a basket of berries, conversation turned to the state of the home, leaving the previous topic quite forgotten until nightfall.

"Prowl?" Smokescreen said. "Is it true our parents aren't dead?"

"Why would you think that?" Prowl replied, rather disturbed.

Bluestreak piped up and said, "Ultra Magnus said our parents were taken by the witch. Is it true?"

Prowl had no choice (well, he did, but he loved his brothers too dearly) and said truthfully, "Yes. Our parents were taken by the witch Shockwave. But they aren't alive. They can't be."

"Why not!" Smokescreen cried.

"They haven't come back, have they?" Prowl retorted. "In ten years, they would have escaped and returned. They haven't so they are dead."

The younger brothers did not take well to this idea. A row took place, loud enough to shake the rafters. Prowl insisted as to their parents' death, and Smokescreen and Bluestreak refused to believe it. They all went to bed disgruntled and unhappy, with tears in their eyes.

In the dark of night, however, Smokescreen whispered to Bluestreak, "We should go find our parents."

"But what if Prowl's right?" replied the youngest Praxian brother.

"He isn't! We should go across the mountain and rescue our parents ourselves!"

Bluestreak, bless his spark, loved his brother (and the idea of his parents) too much to refuse. Together they took a satchel each of food and crept out into the night, their sleeping eldest brother none the wiser.

Of course, come morning, Prowl realized very quickly that his brothers were gone, and why. He fled out into the forest, calling their names, searching every nook and cranny. For a moment, he considered enlisting the help of the nearby town– but no, even if his brothers were found, they would be taken from him! Taken away to some faraway city and some faraway family, and he would never see them again.

Prowl searched, but his brothers had some hours' headstart, and he found neither wing nor mark of them. Weary and worn, Prowl sat on a fallen log and buried his face in his hands. He did not cry, but he dearly wanted to.

"Ho there! You are a sorry sight."

Prowl looked up and beheld a strange mech. He was the color of silver, so bright that it seemed to ripple. Small horns stuck up out of his helm, and claws tipped his fingers. The shape of his plating was strange too, all sharp edges and thorny points, quite unlike the boxiness of Iaconians or the sweeping lines of Praxians. Perhaps oddest of all, however, was his visor. It shone first blue, then white, then green, and all manner of colors.

When Prowl did not reply, the mech said, "No words, pretty thing? What a pity, I would love to hear your voice."

"Pretty?" Prowl said, flushing deeply.

"Ah! There it is, and more lovely than I imagined." The mech smiled, wide and bright. "Why are you so distraught, pretty thing?"

Prowl frowned and said, "Why should I tell you?"

"I might be able to help! I'm a traveller, you see– and adventurer, one might say. I make a point of helping those I see in distress."

This mech was, to Prowl's optics, far too charming to be trusted. But what was he to do? Leave his brothers to die somewhere out in the wilderness? The mech had a pack on his back, and he looked well-travelled, if very, very odd.

"I have nothing to pay you for your service," said the eldest Praxian brother.

The traveller spread his hands. "A favor, then. I will take a favor from you in exchange for aiding you."

Well, what's the worst that could happen, Prowl thought. (He was not always very clever, as you now see.)

"Alright," said he. "I am looking for my brothers. They've gone on a foolish quest to find our parents, who were taken a decade ago by the witch Shockwave."

"A quest! And shall we join them when we reach them?" asked the traveller.

"No!" Prowl cried indignantly. "I will bring them back home!"

"Ahh, a pity, then." The traveller held out his hand. "Come, I will help you find your brothers in exchange for a single favor. Let's shake on it, pretty thing."

Prowl stood up, and brushed dust from his thighs. After only a moment's hesitation, he shook the traveller's hand. A static spark warmed Prowl's hand, but he thought little of it.

"It is only right you know my name," said the eldest Praxian brother. "I am Prowl."

The traveller smiled. "I'm Jazz. Now come, we've got younglings to track!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing in the simple, straightforward style of an orally-told fairy tale is so therapeutic.  
> Comments and kudos appreciated for this particular chapter, I'd like to know what you guys think!


	26. Child

Detective Prowl (after all he'd done in the war, he'd never make it past the rank of detective) stood up from his desk as his chronometer struck 2100. Springer glanced up and waved briefly, too engrossed in pecking out a report on a datapad to really pay attention to Prowl's departure.

Prowl preferred it that way, these days. Being unremarkable. Fewer people had reason to hate him if he were simply… unnoticeable.

He walked home, simply for the exercise, and to gauge the state of the city. Iacon was doing alright, all things considered. The riots were on the downswing, as were violent Decepticon-Autobot relationships. Optimus and Megatron insisted that the two factions were no more but… well, it's hard to break millennia of habit.

Prowl noticed at one that something was off when he entered his apartment. The way the crystal on the shelf had been turned counterclockwise, the way the framed picture of Helix Gardens had been tilted ten degrees to the left.

With a sigh, Prowl corrected both edits to his abode. "Jazz?" he called out.

"In the kitchen, Prowler."

Prowl walked into the kitchen to see his –lover? Occasional hook-up? Almost-friend?– standing before the stove boiling energon in a pot. Jazz looked up and flashed a grin, throwing a handful of metal flakes into the pot.

"Hey Prowler."

Prowl leaned against the countertop. "What brings you here, Jazz?"

"Can't I hang out with a friend?"

"No."

Jazz shrugged. "Yeah alright, then. I'm lookin' for a mech, thought you could help me out."

Of course, Jazz needed intel for his agent-work. Prowl couldn't feel disappointment when he was already expecting this (that's what he told himself, at least). He sagged against the countertop when Jazz turned back to the pot on the stove.

"Don't you have plenty of connections in this city?"

"Yeah, you're one'a them." Jazz glanced up wryly. "C'mon, mech, gov's given this case to Razorhorn, an' I can't let him beat me."

Prowl stepped closer, leaning over the pot idly. "Why don't you go rogue? Working for the government can't be conducive to your usual methods."

"You know they'd never let me do that." Jazz smirked. Prowl smirked back, because no, the new neutral government wouldn't let Jazz go rogue. They didn't want any high-profile faction mecha out of their control.

Prowl glanced away, back at the pot. "So, if you're here for intel, what's the cooking for?"

Jazz grinned. "I can't pay _every_ favor off with sex."

An ache gripped Prowl's spark, but he hid it. Of course, he thought, of course. The ache did not fade as the minutes passed in comfortable silence, however, but increased. Prowl gasped, reaching up to press at his chestplates as though the pressure would help. It didn't.

Jazz looked up sharply. "Prowl?"

Prowl grimaced as his spark pulsed painfully. "I'm fine," he said through gritted teeth. Then the pain flared, and he hunched, rubbing his chestplates.

"Right, I think you needta see Ratchet." Jazz took the pot off the stove and turned off the heater. He took hold of Prowl's upper arm, guiding him over to the front door.

Prowl shook his head, resisting weakly. "No."

"He's not far, an' I'm not lettin' you say no to this."

The walk took an agonizingly long time. Prowl could barely straighten up, and his steps were small. Eventually, Jazz gave up and scooped Prowl into his arms, hurrying along at a faster pace. Ratchet's clinic was only a few blocks away, and with Prowl in his arms Jazz reached it in record time.

Prowl just closed his optics and suffered the indignity.

Ratchet was running the front desk when they walked in, the waiting room empty. He stood up, a deep frown on his face. "What's wrong?" he asked, stepping around the desk and leading Jazz down to an examination room.

Jazz set Prowl down on the berth. Prowl curled into himself, his face contorted with pain as his spark pulsed.

Ratchet shooed Jazz out of the room, despite the mech's protests. Ratchet turned back around, grabbing a scanner from subspace as he approached Prowl.

"Alright," Ratchet grunted, "I'm gonna need you to lay down flat. I know, I know it hurts, but you need to stretch out so I can scan you properly."

Glaring balefully at Ratchet, Prowl obeyed. Ratchet ran the scanner over Prowl's whole body first, then concentrated the scan over Prowl's chest. Ratchet frowned, then ran the scan again.

Ratchet sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "The pain will go away in a minute or two. I'd suggest we wait for that to happen before I tell you what's going on."

Prowl shook his head. "No, tell me now."

Ratchet sighed again. "You're sparked, Prowl. The pain you're feeling right now is the sparkling's spark detaching from yours and traveling down to your gestation chamber."

Prowl's spark sank, and it definitely wasn't because of his current state. "What?" he whispered. The pain faded to the background with this new revelation.

"I do have abortion services available," Ratchet said through a _very_ disapproving frown. "But if you don't want to keep the sparkling I'd suggest you carry it to term and put it up for adoption. There's plenty of pairs who'd want to take it."

Prowl shook his head, hard. "No, no, this… I can't make that sort of decision right now."

"That's alright." Ratchet's expression softened. "Do you want me to let Jazz back in?"

Prowl's optics widened. "What? Why?"

"You think I don't know you two are interfacing? I know the signs, Prowl."

Prowl shook his head vehemently. "No, don't let him in. He can't know."

No, there was no way Jazz could know about this. Prowl would just have to hide this until the sparkling was born. He could do that. He could do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weak premise but eh. I've always been highkey very fond of reading/writing pregnancy fics. Probably because I have been desperate to bear children since I first held my cousin as an infant and thought fervently 'I am meant to be a mother'  
> (Don't you just love oversharing yourself on the internet?)


	27. Adapt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Chapters 1, 3, and 8's AU

"Prime, Ratchet, you can come in now," Jazz called. He kept his attention on the mech in the corner, though, wary of another panic attack.

The double doors swung open, admitting Optimus and Ratchet. Prowl tensed, which Jazz couldn't blame him for. Optimus was big enough to be intimidating, and Ratchet's perpetual scowl didn't exactly scream 'benevolent'.

"Is okay," Jazz murmured in binary. "They good." He pointed to Optimus and Ratchet in turn, saying, "Optimus Prime, Ratchet."

Prowl nodded slowly, keen optics carefully assessing the two mecha.

"Alright," Ratchet grunted, "That's enough touchy-feely." In binary, he said to Prowl, "Berth, please." He gestured to the medical berth Prowl had leapt off some minutes ago. "Need heal check."

Prowl looked to Jazz again. Jazz nodded reassuringly.

Slowly, like a frightened animal, Prowl crept from his corner, hunched until he was almost on all fours. He was halfway there when he paused, glancing over his shoulder at Jazz. A chitter, wordless but clear, called Jazz into following. Jazz grinned, peeling off the wall and creeping forward, hunched like Prowl. Jazz's grin took a teasing tilt.

The black and white mech frowned indignantly, and stood up straight. Jazz followed suit, rearranging his features into a jokingly innocent mask.

"Primus, it's like watching a couple turbofoxes." Ratchet rapped on the berth imperiously, snapping in binary, "Berth!"

Prowl jolted, looking over at Ratchet with wide optics. To Jazz, he said, "Come, stay?" Behind his earnest gaze lay a lingering terror.

"Of course, sweet," Jazz replied, smiling.

Prowl sat on the berth and let Ratchet scan him. Ratchet checked the results, and nodded approvingly.

"Well, his panic attack didn't break anything." He took something from subspace. "And now we know he speaks binary, we can give him a language chip."

There was recognition in Prowl's optics when he saw the chip. He held out his arm without prompting, the chip slot in his wrist popping open. Ratchet slid the chip in and closed the slot.

"It'll be a few hours before he fully integrates that chip." Ratchet pointed imperiously at Prowl. "You, stay," he snapped in binary. Prowl nodded, his optics wide with exaggerated innocence. Ratchet rolled his optics and flicked his wrist, gesturing for Prime and Jazz to follow him out of the medbay.

Jazz waved to Prowl before following. Outside the medbay stood Ironhide, Red Alert, and Wheeljack, who'd been watching the whole affair through surveillance.

Wheeljack started talking the moment the doors shut. "It's really quite interesting," he said. "I'd say he's of an evolutionary offshoot to the Cybertronian race, one with more bestial altmodes. Since he speaks binary, I'd say our races aren't all too far apart. The real question is, are there more of his race, and where are they?

Ratchet snapped, with no real ire, "The only question we need answered right now is what to do with him."

"Recruit him, I'd say," Ironhide grunted. "He'd be an asset to the Cause, if what Jazz said is true."

"Of course it's true. Would I lie?" Jazz grinned. Ironhide rolled his optics exaggeratedly.

Red Alert spoke at last, saying, "Until we're sure of his motivations, he should be watched constantly. I won't have him wandering about the base unsupervised."

Optimus lifted a hand, halting all conversation. "I agree, we should keep him under surveillance. However, I won't keep him in a cell. He's been captive to Shockwave for too long, and if we want to recruit him, it would be best to integrate him."

"So, what, we give him a tour of the Autobot life, hope he takes to it?" Ironhide asked.

"After a fashion," Optimus admitted. "However, we must consider that he has a home to return to. He's far too young to be a remnant of an extinct race."

There was silence as everyone considered that possibility.

"He needs someone to watch him," Ratchet said. "There's always a possibility that I missed something in his repairs– Shockwave could have hidden anything on that mech."

"I'll watch him," Jazz volunteered.

Optimus frowned slightly. "You already have many responsibilities to deal with, Jazz."

Jazz spread his hands. "Babysittin' isn't too hard, an' I got other mechs who'll watch him if I can't. There's a chance Shockwave left somethin' nasty in him, but me an' mine can deal with it if the mech turns violent for any reason. Plus, I rescued him. He trusts me, on some level."

"You make a good argument," Optimus sighed. "Very well, I entrust our guest to your care and that of your unit. He'll stay in the Ops sector until further notice."

Red Alert sputtered indignantly. "Ops sector? I can't properly observe the mech if he's in the Ops sector!"

"Calm down, Red, my mechs'll make sure he doesn't put a pede out of line." Jazz cast the security director a wide grin. To Optimus, he said, "That all, boss?"

Optimus nodded. "For now." He waved to the others. "Come, let Jazz escort his charge to the Ops sector. It would be best if we were not present for it."

Jazz ignored the bustle of heavily armored mecha exiting the hallway. He stepped back through the medbay doors, smirking slightly when he saw that Prowl was rifling through the instruments on Ratchet's standing tray. Prowl looked up upon Jazz's entrance, fear flickering over his expression before recognition settled into a small smile.

"Heya, sweet," Jazz beckoned Prowl over with a crooked finger. "Leave," he said in binary. "Come, show sleep place and friends."

Prowl tilted his head like a curious turbofox, walking over with silent step. "Friends?"

"Help find you," Jazz replied, wishing binary were easier to work with.

Thankfully, Prowl seemed to understand, for his puzzled expression cleared. "Go find," he said, with a small smile. "Want see."

Jazz smiled back. "C'mon then, sweet, let's introduce you to the gang."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dissatisfied with this chapter, but I was flush out of ideas for anything else and this flowed as best as I could make it.


	28. break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for brief suicidal ideation

"When's your next appointment?" Jazz asked, lounging in the chair sitting diagonal to Prowl's desk. Jazz had put the chair there himself some time ago– it was placed perfectly so that he could view the small office, watching both Prowl and the door at the same time. It was Jazz's chair.

"A few minutes." Prowl glanced up wryly. "Shouldn't you leave?"

"Nah, I think I'll stick around." Jazz grinned, settling into his chair, with its cushions molded to his frame from long use. "Just pretend I'm not here."

Prowl shook his head, turning back to his datapad. Who was it that he was seeing in a few minutes? Oh, yes, Ironhide. Something about… oh, Prowl couldn't remember. No worries there, Ironhide would no doubt bring up the subject when he came in.

"Y'been pretty forgetful lately," Jazz said. Had Prowl been muttering aloud?

Prowl waved the unspoken concerns away. "It's just the stress."

Jazz hummed, and fell silent. "You been takin' your meds, Prowler?" Jazz asked, out of the blue after a couple minutes of silence.

"Hm? No, you know I hate taking them."

"They're good for you, Prowl."

Prowl rolled his optics. "I don't need them." His door pinged. "Come in!"

Ironhide entered, sitting down in the guest chair before Prowl's desk. He cast a brief glance towards Jazz, but didn't seem perturbed by the saboteur's presence. "Uhhh, I need to go over security for next week's celebration."

"Celebration?" Prowl asked, even as he pulled the correct datapad from the stacks on his desk.

"Yeah, for one year without war."

Prowl paused. "Has it been a year already?"

Jazz laughed. "You're too wrapped up in your work, love."

Prowl cast a glare Jazz's way. Ironhide frowned too, but had the grace not to look at Jazz. The meeting went over well, in Prowl's opinion. Being a subordinate tactician in Optimus Prime's security wasn't a bad gig, all things considered. Prowl didn't mind that it wasn't a glamorous job. They'd clearly wanted him out of sight when it was given to him.

Ironhide got up to leave, his old joints groaning as he rose from his chair. In a nonchalant voice, he said, "When was the last time you saw Rung, Prowl?"

Prowl frowned. "A few months, I believe. Why?"

"You should set an appointment. Our first year without war… seeing it marked down is bringin' up bad memories for everyone." With those cryptic words, Ironhide left, leaving a bemused Prowl to re-sort the datapads on his desk.

Later that day, Prowl found himself at Bluestreak's apartment, in the company of Bluestreak, Jazz, Smokescreen, Sideswipe, and Sunstreaker. It was a quiet gathering, mostly chatter, a few cubes of highgrade but not enough to get drunk.

Prowl sat away from the others, content to watch, Jazz by his side on the couch.

"It's good t'see 'em laughing," Jazz murmured.

Prowl glanced at Jazz, feeling a small smile touch his lips. "They're adapting well to a life without war."

"An' you aren't?" Jazz turned his head to Prowl. His visor seemed to pierce through to Prowl's spark.

"Well–"

"Hey Prowl!" Bluestreak bounced over, sitting down on the couch arm by Prowl's elbow. "You okay? You aren't talking much."

Prowl smiled up at his fellow Praxian. "I'm alright, Blue, thank you. We're simply sitting in comfortable silence." He tipped a wing to Jazz.

Bluestreak glanced at Jazz, and his smile flickered. "Right." His smile brightened. "I'll leave you to it."

Bluestreak wandered back to the twins. Sideswipe took the grey Praxian under his arm, bending his head to listen to Bluestreak's whisper. Sideswipe's optics darted to Prowl, and then Sunstreaker was pausing in his drinking, clearly listening to the bond he shared with his twin.

"Gossipers," Prowl muttered aside to Jazz.

Jazz chuckled. "Let 'em. It don't hurt anyone."

"Are you _serious_?!" Smokescreen's outraged voice rang out, halting all conversation. He got to his pedes, storming over to Prowl. "Prowl, have you been taking your medication?"

Prowl straightened up, taken aback. "No, why?"

Smokescreen's expression twisted. "You have to take your medication, Prowl otherwise–"

"You all need to get off my back with that!" Prowl snapped. "First Jazz, now you, I don't understand why you all think I need to take my–"

"Stop, just stop." Smokescreen's servos were clenched into fists at his side. He trembled as if with anger. Over his shoulder to the other three, he said, "I don't get why you're all letting him do this. It's not good for him."

"Letting me do–"

"I don't want to hurt him!" Bluestreak cried, his expression stricken.

Smokescreen swiped his hand through the air in a cutting motion. "You're letting him lie to himself!" He turned to Prowl. There was something behind Smokescreen's optics, something pained and terrible. "Prowl–"

"Smokescreen, stop," Bluestreak said in a hard voice. "You're going to hurt him."

Prowl shook his head. "I don't understand what's going on." He glanced at Jazz. "What's going on?" Jazz just shrugged helplessly.

Smokescreen let out a shout of frustration. "Damnit Prowl, Jazz is dead, stop pretending otherwise!"

" _Smokescreen_!" Bluestreak's shocked, stern voice rang out.

Prowl stared up at his friend. "No he isn't, Smokey, he's right here." He gestured aside to Jazz– but Jazz wasn't there. "Damnit, you made him leave!"

"He was never there in the first place!" Smokescreen's expression flickered between anger and agony. "Prowl you have to take your meds, you have to see Rung. This isn't good for you, this- this forgetting!"

Prowl stood up from the couch. "I haven't forgotten anything, Smokescreen. Jazz is still here. Not-not right here, but he'll be back soon. You all saw him!"

"We didn't see slag, Prowl, because he wasn't there. He died! He died when they opened the Allspark! He's been dead for almost a year!"

Prowl shook his head. "I won't listen to this." He turned, intending to leave. Smokescreen caught his arm.

"You're destroying yourself, Prowl."

Prowl stared into Smokescreen's pained optics and felt like crying. "There's nothing wrong with me," Prowl whispered. Wrenching his arm from Smokescreen's grasp, he left.

The journey back to his apartment was a blur. He didn't remember driving there after the fact, could hardly visualize walking up the stairs, typing in his door-code, locking the door behind him.

"Oh, Prowl," Jazz murmured from the couch in the living room. He opened his arms, and Prowl dove into them, breathing in the scent of his beloved, relishing in the warmth.

"I'm sorry Smokescreen was so rude," Prowl murmured. "I don't understand what came over him."

Jazz's hands stroked over Prowl's arms, his wings, his helm. "You need to take your medication, Prowl."

Prowl sat up, frowning. "Why does everyone keep telling me that! You know I hate them."

"They'll help you, Prowl." Jazz smiled sadly. "You know I love you, so, so much."

Prowl felt his throat tighten, felt tears bead at the corners of his optics. He didn't know why. "I love you too, Jazz." He gasped, felt those tears release and trickle down his cheeks.

Jazz reached up, wiping away a drop of thin solvent from Prowl's chin. "An' you know that I will always be here for you, always. Even if you can't see me, I'm always here, watchin' over you, lovin' you."

"I know."

Jazz's smiled flickered. "Smokey's right, Prowl. I know this. You know it too, you've just decided to forget."

Prowl recoiled. "What? Why are you–"

"I died, Prowl. I'm gone." Jazz took Prowl's hands in his own. "I never imagined you'd hurt so much."

"I loved you! I-I _love_ you." Prowl heard his voice, high and shaky, strangled with tears.

Tears fell from beneath Jazz's visor, plopping down from his chin. "You have to take your m–"

"No!"

"You have to take your meds, love. You need to."

Prowl shook his head vehemently. "I won't, I don't need them."

"You do. They'll help you, make you better."

"But I-but I won't…" Prowl gasped for breath.

"You won't see me when you take them, Prowler. But that doesn't mean I won't be there." Jazz laid a hand over Prowl's spark. "I'm always lookin' out for you, love."

A terrible, terrible thought came to mind. Slowly, Prowl said, "If… if you're dead, then what if I just…" He glanced at the shelf where he kept his blaster.

"No!" Jazz took Prowl's face in both his hands and forced Prowl's gaze to Jazz's. "No, you won't do that, Prowl."

Prowl let out a breathless sob. "But I want to see you. I want to _be_ with you."

"Oh, sweetspark." Jazz brushed a thumb over Prowl's cheek, wiping away his tears. "We'll have all of eternity one day. But you still have a life to live. Smokey, Blue, they love you. They need you."

"And I need you."

"You'll have me." Jazz pressed their foreheads together. "We'll be together again, Prowl, when the Allspark fills the sky. Live now, Prowl, and live well. You'll see me again. We can spend eternity together."

Prowl's world was faded, foggy, hidden behind his tears. He could hardly see the shine of Jazz's visor as he sobbed, broken and frightened. Jazz held Prowl close, and Prowl could feel Jazz's own tears wetting their clasped hands.

"Prowl," Jazz whispered. He pressed something into Prowl's hand. It was a pill, Prowl's medication. Prowl hated the sight of it.

"I don't want to," Prowl whispered.

"I know, love." Jazz pressed a kiss to Prowl's lips, to each of his optics, to the center of his chevron. "Take it. Remember that I'm always with you, and I'll never stop loving you." He guided Prowl's hands to his mouth, urged him to take the pill between his lips and swallow.

Prowl closed his optics tight. He shuddered with grief, felt Jazz's own shaking frame against his own. Prowl tried to commit this to memory. Jazz's scent, his warmth, his voice, the feeling of his fingers laced with Prowl's.

"I love you, Prowl," Jazz murmured. "So, so much."

"I love you, Jazz."

With gentle hands, Jazz pulled away, laid Prowl down on the couch. Soft lips pressed against Prowl's brow, leaving a lingering warmth that cooled too quickly. Prowl held Jazz's hand, scared to let go, scared to open his optics. Jazz took Prowl's hand in both his own, pressing a kiss to Prowl's knuckles.

"When the world is new, we'll have eternity to spend together, my love," Jazz said softly, oh so softly. "I'll see you again, Prowler. I promise."

His hand slipped from Prowl's. Terror soared in Prowl's chest, and he opened his optics.

His living room was empty. There was no one there.

Prowl felt like screaming. He could only weep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some parts are clumsily written, like Smokescreen's telling Prowl the truth, but I needed a catalyst. I actually wrote this last night because I couldn't bear to forget it once I got the idea for it. It was so painful to write, let me tell you, especially that last half. I started crying when I wrote Jazz's line, "We'll have all of eternity one day."
> 
> Comments please! I am so desperate to know what you guys think of this particular oneshot :D As an aside, I wanted to leave it ambiguous as to whether Jazz is a hallucination or a spirit. Which one do you think he is?


	29. dance

Jazz watched the mech dance from the window, looking into the empty studio. Well, empty except for the dancer.

He was, objectively, quite beautiful. Sweeping lines characteristic of the Praxian frame-type, with a full bumper and long legs that he didn't allow to hamper his movements. His paint-job was simple, but not plain, accented in all the right places so as to flatter his frame. Yes, objectively, he was beautiful.

Just as objectively, he was quite a good dancer. Every step was balanced, and he could certainly pull off more fouette turns than Jazz could. Core strength was incredible, and that combined with flexibility made for a lovely sight.

There was something missing, though, and Jazz knew exactly what it was. Performance, musicality. The mech was technically good, excellent in fact, but his face was a blank slate, his movements by rote and not passion.

"This is the mech you want me to dance with?" Jazz asked, glancing skeptically at Tracks.

Tracks spread his hands. "You're both the best in your respective fields, and Praxus and Polyhex both want their best at the Festival of Peace."

Right. That little party marking an alliance between the two cities. Jazz hadn't expected to be recruited into the narrative dance performance for the ruling houses and the cities at large, but then he'd never expected an alliance in the first place.

"The best, huh?" Jazz allowed himself a smile at the flattery, before turning back to the mech inside the studio. Jazz could recognize the choreography and the music, it was a variation from the second act of _Little Fae_ , an Iaconian ballet. The Praxian within the room performed the movements well, continuing with the hops and jumps without visibly tiring. Still, there was his lack of expression, of flare. The _Little Fae_ variation was supposed to be bright, full of smiles, even as you danced until your knees and ankles ached.

Perhaps it was just because he was practicing, but Jazz didn't think that was the case.

"He has no performance," Jazz said, straight out. "This is really Praxus's best dancer?"

"You've seen Praxian dances, right?" Tracks quirked a brow at Jazz. "They don't– well, I wouldn't say they don't emote, but all the performance is put into the wings." He gestured.

Jazz frowned, studying the dancer with a closer optic. Yes, he could see it now, the flares, the twitches, the flutters. But Jazz couldn't read what this mech's wings were saying, if they were concurrent with the choreography or not.

"If I'm gonna dance with him, I'm gonna need his performance to go beyond just wings. Polyhexians don't do wingspeak, they won't see what the Praxians do. This dance…" Jazz sighed. "Primus, I don't know what we're gonna do."

Tracks patted Jazz's arm comfortingly. "The festival is months away, you'll have plenty of time to work out creative differences with the choreographer. He's a teacher, you know," Tracks added, nodding to the mech inside the studio, "like you. All of his students have turned out great."

"I'm sure." Jazz drummed his digits on his thigh. "What's his name?"

"Prowl. He already knows you're coming. He's definitely noticed us, actually, he's just ignoring us."

Jazz caught himself before he huffed with amusement. "I guess I'll go say hello."

He stepped away from Tracks, walking around to the studio door. Pushing it in, Jazz stepped into the large room with its single occupant. Allowing the door to close behind him, Jazz walked along the wall of the studio, watching the dancer –Prowl– make his way through the last steps of the Little Fae variation.

The song ended with those last few tinkling notes, leaving Prowl kneeling on the floor, arms outstretched in fourth position, his head tilted just so.

Prowl held the position for four counts before rising, no less gracefully than he had knelt. "You're the Polyhexian they sent to dance with me," he said without preamble, walking over to the stereo to stop it from going into the next song on the track.

"Yep, that's me. I'm Jazz."

"So they told me." Prowl held up the MP3 player. "Find a track here that you know. Dance it."

Jazz felt his brows rise even as he walked across the floor. "Excuse me?"

"You just watched me dance. You have made your assessment. Now allow me to assess you." Prowl offered the MP3 player.

Jazz took the MP3 player, scrolling through the options. And Primus, there were a lot. "Is this yours?" he asked, flicking down the list of genres.

"It is. I haven't danced to all of them, however. Some are just for listening."

"Yeah, mine's a mixed bag too." Jazz picked out a musical theater song he'd danced to a few years ago. His memory of the choreography was rusty, but broadway jazz was always fun.

He played the song, thankful suddenly that this was a walk in and not one he had to start in position for.

For a moment, he feared he'd forgotten it. Then the saxophone sang out, and his frame remembered.

This wasn't a smiles sort of song. It was determination and, on a slightly lower level, seduction. Jazz flung himself into it, revelled in it. This was release. Everything was just the music, the tightness of his body, his iron control hidden behind an appearance of looseness.

By the end of it, his chest was heaving, his limbs aching. He really should have warmed up, but this was fine. It was worth it just to feel the good sort of pain that came from dancing.

Jazz sighed, getting up out of his ending pose. Prowl paused the music half a second into the next song.

"So?" Jazz set his hands on his hips. "Do I meet your standards?"

"You'll certainly be interesting to dance with," Prowl replied, unplugging his MP3 player from the stereo. "Surely the people who chose us realize that we have radically different core styles."

Jazz shrugged. "Might be why they chose us. I heard the dance is supposed to signify the unity of our cities."

"Hm, I heard the same." Prowl began to turn off the lights and aircon, walking along the walls and flicking switches. Jazz wandered to the door, holding it open for the Praxian dancer. Prowl nodded in thanks as he passed by.

"I guess I'll see you around," Jazz said, flicking his digits at Tracks in greeting.

"You will." Prowl gave Tracks a curt nod before opening the door to the stairs and leaving. Jazz watched him go, his head full of thoughts that he couldn't quite track.

Tracks appeared by Jazz's elbow. "He's interesting, isn't he?"

"He certainly is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my Intermediate Modern ISTD exam a few years ago, I got a 3 for performance. It's funny, when you think about it. Then I did ISTD Jazz Gold and Silver a year later and got like a 7 or 8 for performance in both :D  
> This was basically just nostalgia for me. I miss dancing and I only stopped like 2 weeks ago :/ But it's been a damn long 2 weeks.


	30. Singer

Jazz groaned as Barricade dragged him along the road.

"A club, 'Cade? Really? There's gonna be so much drug use we're gonna have to turn a blind optic to."

Barricade cast a glare over his shoulder. "It's not a club. Not that kind, at least, more of a bar. It's on the lower end of classy, upper end of casual."

Jazz couldn't help but grin. "Clasual."

Barricade groaned. "Shut up. Look, my brother works there, and I'm gonna surprise him by showing up."

"Really? What's he do there?"

"You'll see."

The club, as it turned out, really was on that clasual side. Music spilled from the open door, and there was a slightly hipster aesthetic going on with metal light fixtures and antiques and slag. There was also a line.

"So, what, you gonna flash your badge?" Jazz asked his partner. Barricade just scowled and pulled him into the line. There wasn't too long a wait, the line wasn't that long. Jazz let the bouncer look him over, squint, and wave him in.

The place held true to the antique-fixtures aesthetic, with filament light-bulbs and everything. There was a stage opposite the front door, empty but for a microphone on a stand.

"Where's your brother?" Jazz asked, following Barricade over to a miraculously empty four-seat table.

Barricade looked around. "I don't see him. He'll be out soon, I guess."

A waiter stopped by. Barricade ordered engex for the both of them. Jazz slouched in his chair, grimacing as his sensitive audials were assaulted by the chatter of the club. Jazz liked slumming it with the best of them, but clubs weren't usually his thing; too much to keep an optic on, too many corners he couldn't see. At least he'd taken off his badge before he entered, if he'd been recognizable as a cop Jazz would be even more paranoid.

Their engex arrived swiftly. Jazz nodded to the waiter in thanks, plucking up his glass and taking a sip. It was good stuff, went down smooth.

Jazz sighed heavily, glancing around the room for the third or fourth time. Suddenly, the lights over by the stage dimmed, then brightened as the mech working them adjusted. A bot walked out on stage, adjusting the stand for the microphone. He was a Praxian, black and white, red chevron. Pretty, but unremarkable in Jazz's opinion.

Still, Jazz watched with interest as the mech readied the mic and flashed an OK sign to someone offstage.

The music in the club came to a halt, replaced by a softer tune. A few chords passed, enough for Jazz to recognize the genre, if not the song itself. The genre was rock, maybe alternative rock, it was hard to tell. Jazz took a sip of his engex, ready to see whether this mech would be good or back.

The mech took the microphone in both hands, glancing about the club. He looked nervous for a few moments, but then he hid it. That made Jazz's assessment of him drop a couple points, but there was more still to see.

Then the mech's mouth opened.

"Will you hold me  
If I fight  
We've been running  
From the light."

Well, that certainly wasn't the voice of a novice. A bright, clear tenor rang through the club, no sliding notes, no shaky lack of confidence.

Barricade turned at last from studying some mech's aft. "Oh! There he is." He gestured with the hand holding his engex. "That's Prowl, my brother."

Jazz cast his partner an incredulous look. "That's your brother?"

Barricade smiled up at the stage, unmistakably proud. "Yeah. He works at another precinct, but he moonlights here. He was scared at first, our creators never encouraged us in the arts. But he's good, isn't he?"

Jazz spent a few moments just listening. The chatter in the club had faded out of respect for the singer, leaving Prowl's to be the only voice that stood out to Jazz's sensitive audials.

"Yeah, he's good," Jazz murmured.

Barricade nodded proudly. "He's been taking lessons for a while. He's not a natural like some mechs, but he's dedicated once he puts his mind to something." He gave Jazz a significant look.

Jazz returned the look. "'Cade, are you tryna set me up with your brother?"

The other cop shrugged exaggeratedly. "You're his type, and I dunno what yours is but Prowl's good looking."

Up on stage, Prowl caught sight of them. His voice didn't falter, but he did smile, lifting his hand and waving at Barricade. Slag, that smile was kinda cute. Jazz tore his gaze away from the mech on stage and caught Barricade's wide smirk.

"Shut up, mech, aren't you supposed to be preventin' your brother from dating, not hookin' him up?"

Barricade lifted a finger. "I'm not hooking him up, if you interface with him casually I will murder you. No, I'm just… introducing you guys."

Jazz just took another sip of his engex.

After the song was over, and Prowl lingered on that last note, the black and white Praxian came down to their table. He sat in the chair beside Barricade, a small but pleased smile on his lips.

"I didn't realize you were coming tonight, 'Cade," he said, and Primus but his speaking voice was almost as pretty as his singing voice.

Barricade grinned at his younger brother. "Jus' wanted to come see you sing, kiddo. Brought my partner. Prowl, this is Jazz. Jazz, Prowl." He waved a hand between them.

Prowl turned that small, sweet smile on Jazz. Jazz felt his spark contract.

"Hello, Jazz, nice to meet you." Prowl held out a hand.

Jazz took Prowl's hand and shook it, giving his best charming smile. "Nice to meet you too, Prowl. Y'sounded really good up there."

A light flush tinted Prowl's cheeks as he took his hand back. "Thank you."

"No problem." Jazz caught sight of Barricade's slag-eating grin and resisted the urge to kick him under the table. So what if his partner was right about Jazz liking his brother?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love subverting classic Jazz/Prowl tropes  
> Comments appreciated :))


	31. there and back again

He opened his eyes. His optics? Ah, it didn't matter what they were called. They allowed him to see, and that was what mattered.

He rose from the stony bed on which he'd lain, slowly getting used to the feeling of his own body again. He ran his hands over the silky skin of his flesh, now foreign after countless lifetimes of other bodies, other fleshes. And metal, too, those were interesting lives to live.

From the doorway came one of the acolytes, clad in green, the color of innocence and chastity. The acolyte guided him down from the vision bed, gentle hands sparking discomfort in flesh now unused to contact.

"How long was I under?" he asked.

"A day. It's the average, no worries," said the acolyte, giving a comforting smile. "There was once a couple who slept for a year, but that is more myth than fact."

They made their way down the steps towards the waking chamber. Once, his knee buckled, but the acolyte caught him with a swiftness speaking of experience.

He trailed a hand along the stones of the temple, focusing on the sensation beneath his fingertips. How strange that it had been only a day since he had walked up these steps, and yet it felt as thought it had been lifetimes. It _had_ been lifetimes, if only for him. And hopefully…

"Have there ever been cases of unsynchronized sleeps?" he asked nervously of the acolyte.

"Only rarely." The acolyte smiled again. "Fear not, awakened one. The long sleep is an affirmation for all but those who rush to it."

He had more questions, so many, but none could be answered until they reached the waking chamber. So he stumbled and shuffled, learning slowly to control his own limbs again. By the time they reached the doorway to the waking chamber, he could walk on his own, though the acolyte hovered nearby.

He looked up at the words inscribed over the doorway. _Awake! Awake! Your sleep has given truth._

Oh, how he hoped that his sleep had given him the truth.

He nodded to the waiting acolyte, who opened the heavy stone door with a wave of their hand. He stepped inside, followed closely by the acolyte.

The waking chamber held little but an altar, upon which sunlight shone from an opening carved into the ceiling, artfully constructed so that the light would shine down no matter the time of day. The steps before the altar bore dips where countless had knelt to receive the mark of omniverse-given marriage. Behind the altar was an arc, glowing bright with powers he knew he could not comprehend. The omniverse given form, or so the priests and acolytes said.

He took this all in, and then the door on the opposite side of the room opened to admit another. For all that he had not known his own body, there was no way he could forget the face of his beloved. Clad in the white of the sleeping, his beloved stood tall, as beautiful as ever.

"Awakened," boomed the voice of the high priest. He had stepped from the alcove doorway above the altar, and stood now looking down on them. "Come kneel before the altar."

He cast a small smile to his beloved as they stepped in sync from their acolyte watchers, approaching the altar. They knelt there on the smooth, worn stone, their hands close enough to touch. But they did not dare.

"Awakened," said the high priest. "What are the names that the omniverse has given you?"

He had lived so many names during his sleep. Hundreds, thousands. Male, female, in between, he had lived all such lives. But there was one name that always returned, one name which the omniverse had seen fit to gift him.

"My name is Prowl," he said.

By his side, his beloved said, "My name is Jazz."

Prowl turned his head to smile at his beloved, recalling all those lifetimes where he had known his beloved by that name. It was fitting, so fitting. In the language of the Terrans, in meant music, improvised, forceful. In the language of the Laislen, it meant freedom, determination. In the language of Yordan, it meant flowing, ever-changing. So fitting, that the omniverse had seen fit to give his beloved this name.

"What lives has the omniverse given you?" said the high priest.

Prowl glanced aside at Jazz, urging him to speak first. His beloved smiled, and obliged.

"I've lived a hundred thousand lives an' more. An' in all I have loved and lived with the one beside me." Jazz's smile widened, brightened. Like the sun, but far more beautiful. "Not once did I live a life where I didn't love my awakened with all my heart."

Prowl smiled. "I have also lived lives with you, my love. Never did I live a life without you."

The high priest smiled, soft and benevolent. How many awakened had he greeted, Prowl wondered. How many times had he spoken the words of ceremony, asking their names, asking what lives the omniverse had given them.

"Then here, in the light of our sun and before all lives we all shall live, I do pronounce you, Jazz and Prowl, to be married, as deemed by the omniverse."

Jazz smiled and took Prowl's hand at last.

"This will be our best life, Prowl," he said.

Prowl gave his beloved a smile and a kiss. "I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we have it, the last chapter of my oneshot compilations. Did I really just tie them all together and say that they were lives lived by two people trying to see whether they were universally destined? Yes. I'm actually intrigued by this entirely original universe I've crafted here, though I'll probably not use it again.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been reading this for the past month, it's been a joy to write for you guys and to read your feedback :))

**Author's Note:**

> If you like, comment a prompt for me to answer tomorrow! If anyone does end up commenting a prompt, I'll use it, or pick one to use.  
> (It's possible that some of my oneshots will have continuations, so keep that in mind.)


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